


Against Logic and Reason

by umbrafix



Series: Finding His Way Home [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Morse becomes part of the family, Shapeshifting, cat!Morse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: Sequel to Finding His Way Home, in which Morse got stuck as a cat for a while and he and Thursday worked out a complicated Morse-code blinking system to communicate.Now Morse starts taking on shapeshifting cases at Cowley - unfortunately his abilities are a little too interesting to the higher ups - and struggles to balance his life after living with the Thursdays for so long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing Morse as a cat in Finding His Way Home. He got to have all the affection that real, human, Morse would never allow himself to. I only got away with it because real!Morse wasn't around to protest, but now he's no longer stuck as a cat...
> 
> And maybe I was thinking about it anyway, but I blame Tashilover for this.

“He only had his first case last week!” Thursday objected, switching his gaze from CS Bright to the backs of the two men waiting outside Bright's office. They were plain clothes, but the suits were a cut above anything he could have afforded. They had ‘special division’ metaphorically written all over them.

 

“And performed admirably,” Bright said with some asperity. “Of course there was bound to be recognition of that.”

 

Thursday looked at the men again, sweeping his eyes over them. Very suspicious. “Who are they, anyway?” he growled. “What do they want?”

 

“Beyond what I’ve already told you, I really don’t know, Thursday. Nonetheless, my superiors have made it clear we owe them our full cooperation. Now, if you could fetch Morse, I’ve told them they can use my office – there’s nowhere else suitable.”

 

Thursday stared at Bright with the dimming conviction that, if he waited for long enough, the other man would realise what a stupid idea this was.

 

“This is… Morse, sir,” he said slowly, as though Bright might not have realised that. It was entirely possible that the chief superintendent had got swept away by the credit and glory of the successful operation last week, and forgotten whom he was dealing with.

 

Bright’s answering look was not kind. “Your concern is noted. Are you suggesting that a member of our unit would not do us credit, Thursday?”

 

And, well, Thursday wasn’t going to be the one to slight Morse’s character when the lad was well accomplished at getting himself into trouble all on his own.

 

“I’ll just go and get him then, shall I?” he said.

 

He gave the two strangers a baleful look on the way past.

 

Morse was engaged in his daily battle with the typewriter; even from across the office Thursday could see the absolute concentration on his face, the sporadic tic at the corner of his mouth. Christ, Thursday thought as he approached, he’d only just gotten the lad healed, gotten him reinstated as Thursday’s bagman, and now this? Nothing good would come of it, Thursday could tell.

 

He stopped by Morse’s desk, but Morse just continued one painstaking letter at a time. Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

“Morse,” he said quietly. The bowed head jerked up, Morse’s look turning to consternation as he belatedly registered Thursday’s presence.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Got a minute?” Thursday leaned against the next desk, glad that no one else was in earshot. “You’re needed in Mr Bright’s office.”

 

An expression of confusion settled over Morse’s face as he obviously strained to remember what he might have done recently which merited a reprimand. Fondness stirred in Thursday’s gut, and he held up a quick hand as Morse started to rise.

 

“Sir?”

 

He was different now, Morse. To be fair, Thursday wasn’t entirely sure sometimes that he remembered what Morse had been like _before_ \- but _this_ Morse was characterised by recently shorn hair, a consistently wary expression and a tendency to keep his mouth shut. The latter didn’t always apply with Thursday himself, though.

 

“There’s some people here to see you,” Thursday said. “Government men, maybe. Scotland Yard, Special Division – I don’t even know, Bright won’t tell me. But they’re awfully keen to talk to you, after your performance last week.”

 

Morse looked bewildered. “Is it something about the case? Was there-“

 

“No,” Thursday interrupted. “Nothing about the…” He paused. “Hadn’t thought of that. But no, Bright’s pretty sure that they were impressed by your… special talents.”

 

Morse eyed him, unamused.

 

Thursday inclined his head, and Morse looked over his shoulder towards Bright’s office.

 

“It’s entirely possible that they have some kind of an offer,” Thursday said delicately, and Morse snorted.

 

“Well, they can go shove it up their-“

 

“And Mr Bright has, of course, emphasized the importance of cooperation.” Thursday watched Morse’s face carefully – saw the look of slight betrayal. Not much of a poker face, this one.

 

“You want me to work with them?” Morse said, disbelief colouring his tone.

 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Thursday kept his voice even. “However, the chief super would likely be unimpressed if you were completely uncooperative.”

 

His words didn’t seem to have had much of an effect; if anything Morse looked more belligerent than before Thursday had put his oar in.

 

“Never mind, lad, go and talk to them. Try not to get us both fired,” he said wearily, and turned away.

 

\-----------------------------

 

He was called into Bright’s office again that afternoon, before he’d seen Morse again.

 

The chief superintendent was standing by the window, idly fingering something in his pocket. He’d obviously noticed Thursday enter but he didn’t speak for a minute, leaving Thursday standing over by the door. For all that it was a pointless power contest, Thursday refused to speak first.

 

“Come in, Thursday,” Bright said eventually. “Close the door.”

 

“Sir.”

 

A few more feet into the office, and Thursday put his arms behind his back and stood there as though he’d no idea what was going on.

 

Bright sighed. “How’s that case of yours going?”

 

“The Louise Carver one, sir? We’ve picked someone up for it. Spotted in the neighbourhood at the right time of night. Jakes has him in the interview room at the moment.”

 

“Nasty business. Only sixteen. Will she be alright?”

 

“Should be, sir,” Thursday said staunchly. “Alright as she can be.”

 

“Hmm.” Bright cast him a quick glance, then moved behind his desk. “That isn’t why I called you here, Thursday.”

 

“Imagine that, sir.”

 

“The interview with Morse, this morning…”

 

“Yes, sir?” Thursday prompted a moment later. To be honest, he was more than curious about how it had gone himself.

 

“They requested my presence, after a while. Apparently Morse had been…” Bright appeared to search for the right word. “Monosyllabic.”

 

Thursday shifted on his feet, thrust his shoulders back a little. “That’s just his way now, sir. He’s not comfortable with strangers.”

 

“No,” Bright said slowly. “I can’t say matters improved vastly with me in the room.”

 

“Did you find out what they wanted?” Thursday asked after a moment.

 

Bright leaned back in his chair and gave Thursday an assessing glance. “I understand that you’re protective of the boy, Thursday, but-“

 

“Somebody needs to be,” Thursday said carefully. “Especially now it seems there are others that might want to use him for their own ends. He’s a bright one, Morse, but not particularly savvy.”

 

There was a momentary lull as Bright digested that. “No, you might be right about that. One of the things he did make clear, however obliquely, was that he wasn’t prepared to do change-work without you involved.”

 

“Did he, now?” Thursday murmured, and a quiet, pleased feeling stole through his chest.

 

Another sigh. “God knows you seem to be the only one with any influence over him – but that’s not an _advantage_ , Thursday. It’s a liability. How can he be an asset to the force if he refuses to work with anybody? If we didn’t want those abilities so badly…”

 

“But you do,” Thursday said surely. “And they do. So I suppose we’re stuck with it like this.”

 

He and Bright stared each other down.

 

Thursday could have eased things, of course. Could have said that Morse had only just started doing shape-changing work, was still getting used to it. That he’d recently been shot. That it made sense to start him out with someone he was familiar with, to get him used to it, and then they could include more people as his handlers – get him trained up, as it were.

 

Damned if Thursday would argue for that, though.

 

“He was doing just fine as a regular police officer,” Thursday added, just to rub it in. “He doesn’t _have_ to do any of this.”

 

“Alright,” Bright said wearily, “you’ve made your point.” Then, “Would he really stop, do you think?”

 

Thursday forced himself to think his next sentence through before he spoke it. “He’s an interest in doing the work but, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, sir, Morse finds it a bit difficult to… connect to people. And as a cat his disinterest is magnified. I’m genuinely not sure how well he _would_ work with other people, even if he were inclined to try.”

 

It was a topic he’d avoided bringing up before, because dwelling on Morse’s tendency towards insubordination was never a good idea - and it hadn’t been necessary because Bright had seemed inclined to let Thursday get his own way. But if they were going to try forcing Morse to work with other people, well, that could be a manure heap of epic proportions.

 

Bright looked down at his desk for a moment, considering. “I take your meaning, Thursday. There will be another meeting - we may ask you to attend.”

 

Thursday nodded. “Sir,” he said, and left the office.

 

\----------------------------

 

Morse arrived at the Thursday house about an hour after he’d driven Thursday home in the Jag.

 

“Morse is here,” Joan sung out as she walked past the door to the living room, and Thursday looked up from his newspaper.

 

“Morse?” he said, and then “Win?”

 

“Hang on, he’s still in the garden,” came her voice from the kitchen, and then the sound of the back door opening.

 

“Hello, love,” he heard her say, her voice gone all soft and affectionate, and he rolled his eyes to himself.

 

Five minutes later –time enough for Morse to have thoroughly wheedled any treats she might have had from her – a small ginger form appeared at the edge of the doorframe.

 

“Evening, Morse,” said Thursday, not looking up from the news. Apparently they’d soon be able to see pictures that a space probe had taken of Mars. Fancy that.

 

Morse loitered.

 

Thursday finished the page, then folded the paper in half and looked up at the doorway. Morse was perfectly bisected by the doorframe, one unblinking blue eye firmly trained on Thursday.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Not like you to stand on ceremony.”

 

Morse didn’t move.

 

“And don’t even pretend you’re upset with me over earlier,” Thursday added. “It’s not like I knew they were coming any more than you did. Bunch of stuck up arses, thinking they can march in whenever they please.”

 

There was a slight rounding of Morse’s position, and after a moment he started to wash one of his paws in long, languorous swipes.

 

“Don’t suppose you want to tell me how it went? No? Or even what it was about?” Thursday waited for a moment. “Fine then,” he said, and went back to his paper.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morse gradually sink down to the floor, tucking his legs under himself. Win nearly tripped over him when she came in a few minutes later. “Fred – oh!” She pulled back at the last second, hand flying up to her chest. “What have I told you about sitting in doorways and on the stairs, hmm?”

 

Morse blinked at her, unimpressed.

 

“Come on now, love,” she said, and gave him a little push with the side of her foot until he obligingly unfurled and moved into the room. “Fred, have you seen my scissors?”

 

“No. Why would I have seen them; you mean your sewing ones?”

 

“No, the ones from the kitchen. I don’t know, I can’t find them - I thought you might have moved them.”

 

“Well, where did you last see them?” he asked patiently, and hauled himself out of the chair to help her look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware that my version of the Thursday house, which has a slightly bigger kitchen with a back door onto a garden, has no basis in reality. And yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Win always insisted on making extra food just in case Morse was coming – and it had to be proper food. Thursday found he agreed on that; he couldn’t imagine serving tinned cat food to Morse – though the lad probably wouldn’t care one way or the other. She still made extra vegetables, ‘just in case,’ and either Joan or Thursday would slide them off the plate and onto their own before giving it to Morse.

 

Morse ate everything that Win made happily and with relish, invariably licking the plate. “Now, here’s one who appreciates my cooking,” she would always say as she picked it up afterwards, and Thursday would say, mock-offended, “And what am I, chopped liver?”

 

Tonight she kissed the back of his head as she passed and replied, “No, but you’re obligated to like my cooking. He’s not.”

 

“Obligated.” Thursday snorted. He couldn’t remember Win cooking a bad meal in her life, barring the time her mother had been visiting and insisted that they follow the recipe ‘her way.’

 

“I’ll help with the drying, mum,” Sam offered, and Thursday offered Joan a stern look until she rolled her eyes and called, “Don’t worry about the washing up, mum, I’ll do it.”

 

Sam grinned at her, smug to have gotten away with what he viewed as the lesser evil.

 

Morse hopped onto Sam’s chair as he vacated it, and sniffed interestedly at the edge of the tablecloth.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” said Thursday. “She’ll skin you, and have your guts for garters.”

 

“I’ll have whose guts for garters?” Win said, wiping her hands on a cloth as she came back into the room. Morse blinked guilelessly at her from where he’d dropped into a folded position on the chair, and her expression softened.

 

Thursday repressed the urge to laugh. He didn’t think Morse manipulated his wife deliberately, but the lad did a damn fine job of it all the same.

 

“Fancy a drink?” he asked Morse, but the cat showed no sign of moving. “No? Win?”

 

“Oh, I’ll have a sherry, love. Just the one though, or I’ll iron holes in all your shirts.”

 

“It’s Friday; leave them for tomorrow,” he said, though this was an old argument. “You’ll have the whole day.”

 

“A very busy day,” she replied smartly. “As well you know! You boys staying in here?”

 

Thursday levered himself to his feet, fitting his hands in the small of his back and taking a moment to stretch. After a moment, Morse mimicked him, back drawing out in a long arch before he hopped nimbly down from the chair. Sometimes it made Thursday’s spine hurt just to look at the lad.

 

He gave Win a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be in the living room.”

 

\-----------------

 

Later, with Win gone upstairs and the kids who-knew-where – and he really needed to learn to stop thinking of them as kids – Morse was curled up in a warm, solid lump on Thursday’s lap and all was right with the world.

 

“Are you staying tonight, then?” Thursday asked. If Morse came round on a Friday night he usually slept there, unless he had early morning plans elsewhere. His dog-eared cardboard box still sat in its usual place after all these weeks, even though it only saw occasional use. Win had never suggested moving it, not even just during the week on nights when Morse wasn’t there. It was part of the furniture, now.

 

Morse didn’t move, but Thursday knew he was still awake. The line of his body was relaxed, the muscles unspooled, but there was something ever so slightly different in the way his ears twitched when he was awake as opposed to asleep, and Thursday could see it now.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?” Thursday said sleepily.

 

It was bedtime, but he had no interest in moving, warm and comfortable as he was. Still, if he didn’t get up soon Win would have to come and fetch him.

 

He shifted his hand to draw a gentle line off to one side of Morse’s spine with his forefinger, watching the fur part and reform around it.

 

“We should have a chat at some point, about what’s going on.”

 

Morse’s ears flattened close to his skull. Thursday reached out to flick the tip of one. “Don’t you take that tone with me. Would you rather be ambushed again on Monday morning? No, we need to work out what to do.”

 

The ears eased back into a more natural position, and Thursday rubbed between them apologetically.

 

“Anyway, I should be off to bed,” he said, but it was five minutes before he could convince himself to move and another one after that to dislodge Morse’s drowsy, uncooperative form.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Saturday mornings were either manic or lazy. Thus far, this one was half and half – Thursday was having a lie in, but he’d been woken long ago by Joan banging around getting ready for a trip with her friends. He’d been absolutely determined to stay in bed though.

 

Win came up with a cup of tea not long after he heard the front door slam, and he propped himself up on his pillows.

 

“Thanks, love.”

 

“Breakfast in about fifteen minutes,” she said as she headed back to the door. “Sam and Morse are watching cartoons.”

 

Thursday took a moment to decide he’d heard that right, and then dragged himself out of bed.

 

Cartoons. _Morse_. The mind boggled.

 

He wrapped himself in his dressing gown, shoved his feet into his slippers without looking, and trudged downstairs.

 

She was right.

 

Sam was sitting on the floor in his pyjamas, looking for all the world like he was still seven rather than seventeen, and Morse was poised in a perfect sphinx pose beside him, both of them with their eyes glued to the screen.

 

Thursday had never actually worked out how much Morse could see of the television picture when he was a cat, but this was priceless.

 

“Where’s the camera, love?” he asked as he wandered into the kitchen, and Win gave him a quick look.

 

“In the study, isn’t it?”

 

He trudged up the stairs, back down again, and felt a spike of triumph to see neither Sam nor Morse had moved from their positions.

 

He raised the camera, and immortalised the image of cat, boy, and Donald Duck. One for the album, he thought smugly.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Saturday evening was Doctor Who, and Sam had come home early from the park so that he could watch it faithfully. ‘Aren’t you a bit old for this lark,’ Thursday had asked him in amusement when the show had first started airing - now Win got to laugh at him in turn because they usually all watched it together, Thursday looking forward to it just as much as Sam or Joan.

 

Morse seemed to actively disdain it though – Thursday wasn’t sure if it was the odd noises or the premise – and in contrast to the morning’s viewing he sloped out of the room, returning only at the closing music in order to watch the news.

 

“You’re a funny one,” Thursday told him as he settled companionably between Thursday and Win on the sofa. “Don’t like spaceships, hmm?

 

Morse stared at him for a moment, then returned his gaze to the screen.

 

“You’ll ruin your eyes,” grumbled Thursday somewhat hypocritically.

 

He turned the TV off when Win got up to go and make dinner. “Do you have time in the morning, Morse? I’ve got to go out at around ten, but before that?”

 

A white paw snaked out to tap twice against his thigh, and that was that.

 

\---------------------

 

Breakfast was soft boiled eggs with soldiers – something he and Win had started off making for the kids and then never grown out of. Morse sat at the table in the spare set of clothing Thursday had suggested he kept at their house ‘for work emergencies,’ idly prodding a thin rectangle of toast into the yolk of his egg. It was an unusual sight, as even when Morse arrived with the Jag in the mornings Win could rarely persuade him to come in rather than waiting on the doorstep.

 

Joan had returned late the previous night, so she was filling her mum in all about the day before – the museums they’d visited, the people they’d seen. Thursday was… not ignoring it exactly, but letting it wash over him.

 

Morse prodded the egg again. He’d not actually eaten any of his breakfast, Thursday couldn’t help but notice. “Don’t play with your food,” he said, and glorified in Morse’s unguarded _it’s-too-early-in-the-morning_ look.

 

After the plates had been cleared and the rest of his family gone about their business, Thursday leaned his elbows on the table. “Well?”

 

Morse’s mouth twisted in an unhappy line. “Well, they want me to work on something with them. Wouldn’t say what – just that it was very important. Some sort of test case, I assume, to see if I’m good enough.”

 

Not entirely dissimilar to what Thursday had been thinking. He chewed the information over.

 

“Did you know that I was the only one?” Morse asked suddenly, and Thursday frowned at him.

 

“The only what?”

 

“Cat,” Morse clarified. “I’m the only one on record. I’d assumed it was common, but apparently not.” He picked up his glass and drained the rest of his orange juice.

 

“No,” Thursday said slowly. “I mean, _I_ was surprised about you – I’d never heard of cats – but then my knowledge on the whole subject was a bit shaky. Only one on record, eh?”

 

“Presumably because everyone else is too smart to tell anyone,” Morse said.

 

Thursday snorted.

 

“Oh, it gets better. They want to make it an official secret – what I am. Get everyone to sign a piece of paper, saying that they won’t tell anyone. Otherwise I’d be no use as a spy.” His voice was slightly bitter.

 

“They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” Thursday said with conviction, because God, if they even _tried_ …

 

“Really?” Morse’s eyes were cold. “Because I’ve been informed that it would be much better for me if I cooperated, and that they could...” He hesitated, and Thursday’s fists clenched into hard balls on the tablecloth. Morse’s eyes flicked to them. “They may have just implied the rest. They were very… civil.”

 

“I’m sure,” Thursday grated out. _Please excuse me_ , he wanted to say, _I have to go and kill somebody_. But instead he relaxed his fingers, muscle by muscle, and smoothed the cloth out again. “Look-“

 

“I won’t do it,” Morse said before he could get anything else out, and it was so stubborn, so _Morse_ that Thursday almost sighed in relief. Because in the end his biggest concern was that they undoubtedly want Morse to do something incredibly dangerous, and, by the sound of it, be moved elsewhere to keep doing it.

 

“We’ll figure something out,” Thursday said. “Though I was a lot more confident about that before you implied...” He hesitated. “How serious were they?”

 

Morse considered this, and Thursday considered Morse. The lad managed to look even younger now that his hair was cut short – the barber’s only possible choice, apparently, facing the overgrown mop of Morse immediately post cat interlude. His eyes seemed to shine brighter, somehow, and he was even more buried in his head than he’d used to be. At least, he was while he was human.

 

“I don’t know,” Morse said eventually. “I think they were just trying to intimidate me into talking to them.”

 

Thursday took a deep breath, let it out again. “Alright then, we’ll take it as it comes. Us threatening to take you off shape-change work has Mr Bright on our side, because you’re quite a feather in his cap. But he’s not particularly good at resisting pressure from higher up.”

 

Morse nodded.

 

“I think I’ll be in the next meeting with you, for all the good that will do you. I can’t say I’ll be any more diplomatic with them than you were.” Which got Thursday a crooked half-smile. “It’ll be alright,” he said, despite his misgivings. “You’ll see.”


	3. Chapter 3

Monday morning brought the promised meeting. There were two visitors again, one of the ones from before and the other a more scholarly looking type with a briefcase. Unlike the mysterious man in the suit, this one shook their hands and introduced himself. “DI Thursday, DC Morse, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr Barnes.”

 

Morse held onto the man’s hand for a moment at the end of the shake. “What are you a doctor of?”

 

“Mathematics.”

 

The man’s smile didn’t falter, even though Morse’s hold had already lasted far longer than was deemed socially acceptable. Finally Morse seemed to shake himself, letting go and giving a quick grimace of apology.

 

They sat, and waited for one of the constables to bring in tea for everyone before they proceeded.

 

“Now then,” said Barnes, “I was asked to come along because of a possible communication issue -and we are of course now joined by Detective Thursday.” He spared Thursday a quick glance, then turned his focus back to Morse. “Excellent. Now, I’m sure you covered a lot of this last time, but I shall ask you to be patient as we re-tread old ground on behalf of those of us who were not present.”

 

Thursday settled back in his seat a little, at least marginally happier with the way this seemed to be going. Morse, in the seat next to him, seemed to have relaxed a bit as well, which, Thursday thought, was probably exactly the point. Send an academic in, have him be open and interested rather than intimidating and pushy – get Morse to open up a bit. Someone with at least half a brain seemed to have taken over organising this business – Thursday wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

 

“So, Mr Morse, I understand from my briefing that you are able to change shape, and that your form is that of a domestic cat; _Felix catus_. This is correct?”

 

Morse tipped his head.

 

“Excellent. And the week before last you were part of a successful operation in which you traced a gang’s hideout, observed them at close range to learn their numbers, patterns, and confidential information, and communicated this to achieve a successful resolution?”

 

Morse stayed silent, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the man. Thursday cleared his throat. “That’s right. It was the first time Morse was out in the field, so to speak,” he added.

 

“Yes…” Barnes looked down at the notes he’d pulled out of his briefcase. “That’s right. I was given the impression you hadn’t spent much time changing before the incident of almost four months ago?”

 

_Now who had told him that?_

 

Morse shrugged.

 

“Hmm. Well-“ Barnes sat a little straighter “-I think we could all benefit from a little bluntness here. We are very interested in your talents, Mr Morse – you seem from your records to be a very bright, promising officer – and someone with your observational skills and capacity for… going undetected, shall we say, would have a promising future in any number of organisations.”

 

“He has the start of a fine career here at the Oxford police,” Bright said, gaining animation in the face of an open job offer. Before it had just been ‘cooperation’ - now that it was blatant poaching suddenly Bright cared.

 

“Indeed.” Barnes gave them a conciliatory smile. “I can see that he’s doing well here. But there are other opportunities available, ones which would use _all_ of his skills, and it’s surely only fair that we present them to him.”

 

“What do you mean, _all_ my skills?” asked Morse.

 

Barnes turned to him, seeming pleased at the question. I’ll just bet you are, thought Thursday.

 

“I believe you have experience in code-breaking?” the man said. “And,” he consulted his notes, “a thorough grounding in history and the classics.” Morse’s lips twitched with slight irritation. Rather in the same way his ears would have, Thursday thought idly, if he were a cat. “Rest assured, Mr Morse, that what we are offering would utilise you to the utmost – I believe that you would genuinely enjoy the work.”

 

The image that most immediately came to mind was of Morse ninja-catting his way around historical museums and deciphering clues left by foreign agents – a far cry from the truth, maybe, but Thursday still had to give a little cough to disguise the break in his composure.

 

“I’m not interested in leaving Cowley station at this time,” Morse said, and Thursday saw Bright straighten a little. “I enjoy my work here.”

 

“He does an excellent job here,” Thursday weighed in. “Catching murderers, keeping the streets safe. And rest assured,” he added in a lower tone, “that we also use _all_ his skills.”

 

Barnes sat back in his chair, apparently unflustered by this announcement. “Well,” he said, “that’s rather what I thought you’d say – certainly it’s the impression my colleagues gave me.” He indicated the man behind him. “And obviously I don’t want to push you on the matter.”

 

“Obviously,” said Thursday, his tone arctic.

 

Barnes spared him a glance which, if anything, was slightly amused. “We are still interested in consulting on the occasional special operation – conjoined task forces, for example, or any situations in the local area – is that something you might be interested in?”

 

Morse frowned, and looked at Thursday. Thursday didn’t say anything – this was Morse’s show now.

 

Barnes had followed the interplay. “Ah, yes, you indicated to my colleagues yesterday that you would only work with DI Thursday, is that correct?”

 

Morse glanced at Thursday again, then fixed his gaze on the wall behind Barnes. He didn’t seem inclined to answer him. Thursday let the silence go on for a minute and then cleared his throat again. “That’s right.”

 

“Hmm. No exceptions? Perhaps if you tell us the reason for it we could attempt to replicate the conditions?”

 

Startled by the question, Morse locked eyes with the man. They appeared to have a staring contest for a moment, and Thursday gathered himself to interrupt. “I believe you understand my reasoning,” Morse said though, just before he could say anything. “Am I wrong?”

 

“I could make a guess, certainly, but that’s all it would be; a guess. You realise of course that this places the detective in a somewhat… _precarious_ position.”

 

Thursday drew in a quick breath, because _precarious his arse_. It was ambiguous enough that it could have meant many things, but the tone of voice was suggestive.  His eyes flew to Morse, remembering the conversation they’d had about threats the day before.

 

Morse was staring intently at Barnes, swift calculations flashing behind his eyes. For a moment Thursday thought maybe Morse was going to let it just slide – pretend he hadn’t understood. But no, slow fury spashed across the lad’s face and his jaw tensed in an obvious attempt to hold it back. Barnes said nothing further, pleasant smile fixed on his face.

 

“ _Morse_ ,” Thursday said quietly, but his voice went unheard.

 

There was the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. “If you think you can use him as leverage,” Morse said, voice strained, “then we’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

 

Everyone was still for a moment. _They’re poking at him on purpose_ , Thursday thought to himself.

 

“Now, Morse,” began Bright. Thursday winced inwardly.

 

“There are no circumstances in which I would ever comply with such threats,” Morse said. The anger was showing through now, snapping at the thin veneer of calm. “And I refuse to work in a station which would condone such an action,” he added to Bright.

 

Bright’s mouth opened in instinctive objection.

 

“Enough,” barked Thursday. Everyone turned to look at him except Morse, who stood flushed and defiant in the middle of the room. “Sit down,” he ordered Morse, who gave him a brief, mutinous look and then sat. “He didn’t mean that,” Thursday said to Bright, and then turned to the others in the room. “And I’m sure you weren’t in any way threatening my job or my life, were you?” he said. “Since such an action would certainly never incline Morse to work with you, now or in the future, and you were trying to solicit his favour.”

 

A few moments passed, and then Barnes spoke again, directly to Morse rather than Thursday.

 

“That was poorly phrased,” he said. “I apologise. My meaning was that any agency wishing to contract you must then by necessity go through Mr Thursday, rendering his position here - and his work generally - more… complicated.”

 

“You don’t seem to have any problem rendering _my_ position more complicated,” said Morse. 

 

Barnes nodded. “True enough.”

 

“Look,” Morse said, and his voice lost a bit of its strident edge. “I’m never going to agree to do things in advance that I don’t know anything about. If at some point you have a case, and you ask for help from the station, then I’m happy to work as I’m assigned.”

 

“With Detective Thursday?”

 

Morse didn’t say anything.

 

“Well then.” Barnes closed his notebook and stood. “I think I understand a little better how things are. I apologise for any misunderstandings, and hope that if you are contacted with any future cases you will evaluate them on an individual basis.”

 

The rest of them stood too.

 

“Quite,” said Bright. “Quite. Individual basis. Yes. Morse’s suggestion of a joint force is quite sensible, I think. Best way to do it.”

 

After a moment’s awkward silence, Barnes nodded to the man behind him. “We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you for your time, Mr Bright, Mr Thursday. Mr Morse.”

 

They filtered out, and Thursday closed the office door behind them.

 

Bright let out an explosive breath. “Well!” he said, and then didn’t seem to know what else to say. “Well,” he said again.

 

Morse sat quietly in his chair, not fidgeting, not doing anything.

 

“Bastards,” Thursday said quietly, and heard Bright’s reprimanding but slightly amused, “Thursday!” in response. His own eyes stayed on Morse, and after a moment he saw the lad blink and come back to himself, saw his gaze flick quickly around the office and then to Thursday.

 

“Well, it’s a right pickle, and no mistake,” Thursday said to him. “I can’t work out if that means they’ll leave you alone or not.”

 

Morse shrugged, awkward, folded in on himself. It was as though now that all the attention on him had gone he suddenly realised how uncomfortable he’d found it.

 

“Nothing to do until we hear more,” Thursday said, and Bright nodded.

 

“Yes, yes indeed. Well, I’ll let you get back to your business, gentlemen.”

 

“Come on, Morse,” Thursday said.

 

Morse seemed to belatedly process the events of the last minute, getting to his feet with half a nod in Bright’s direction. He paused on his way out. “About the, uh, the-“

 

“We’ll think no more of it,” Bright said, and Thursday breathed an inwards sigh of relief.

 

“My office?” Thursday murmured out the side of his mouth as they walked through the CID office, and Morse followed without protest. Thursday closed the door and shut the blinds, because he’d seen more than a few interested heads swing in their direction.

 

“You alright?” he asked once he was done.

 

Morse stood in the middle of the office, looking at a bit of a loss. Thursday maintained a careful distance of a few feet, fighting the instinct to reach out and touch Morse’s shoulder.  

 

“What do you think will happen now?” Morse asked after a moment.

 

“I’ve no more idea than you I’m afraid; that Dr Barnes didn’t seem an unreasonable sort, but I doubt he’s in change.”

 

Morse idled across the room, and, having reached the desk, sat himself down behind it. In Thursday’s chair. Thursday watched in some amusement, the lad clearly unconscious of what he’d just done. Thursday had noticed that Morse’s concept of other people’s possessions and boundaries had suffered a bit, having been stuck as a cat for so long.

 

“He was one too,” Morse said, and propped his head on his hand. At Thursday’s raised eyebrow, “A shifter. I just… knew, somehow. He reminded me of Professor Tumlinson.”

 

The man they’d consulted when Morse got stuck as a cat. Another suspicion confirmed then.

 

“Was he now?” Thursday considered this. “Do you think that means anything?”

 

“I’m not sure. Seemed odd, though.”

 

“Maybe to lower your guard?”

 

Morse snorted. “Well, I certainly…” He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and Thursday could practically see him retracing the conversation as he groaned.

 

“Nevermind, lad, it was enough to wind anyone up. And it wasn’t an entirely bad idea to remind Mr Bright that you have no obligation to stay here. He’s maybe started factoring you into his career plans a little too much without your say so.”

 

Morse raised an eyebrow, previously unaware, and Thursday gave a slight nod.

 

“Anyway, I need to go and see what Jakes has got for me. Dinner’ll be the usual time, if you fancy it. And thanks for keeping the chair warm,” Thursday said over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, this one fought me. I had to revise it a dozen times to keep it from being ridiculously over-dramatic, and it still sort of is. Oh well.


	4. Chapter 4

For all that he’d offered, he hadn’t expected to see Morse that evening at all – it was unusual for the lad to visit so many days in a row. They’d usually see him once or twice a week, maybe, and he’d always be extra stiff with Thursday at work the next day as if to compensate for any friendliness he might have exhibited as a cat. Thursday wondered sometimes if Morse would have been round every night, if only the boy didn’t somehow see it as a weakness.

 

Still, Morse was here tonight, and not even bothering with his usual initial standoffishness. He’d arrived later, after dinner, and came straight through to haunt Thursday’s footsteps until he’d finished various odd jobs and retired to the sitting room. Morse plumped himself down next to Thursday’s feet, leaning against his leg, and stared alertly out into the room.

 

Thursday knew better than to comment on it while everyone else was still downstairs.

 

“What’s got you so unsettled then?” he asked after Win kissed him good night.

 

Morse’s head turned just a little, not even to look at him but just showing that he’d heard him.

 

“Morse? I don’t think you need to protect me from the armchair, lad, it’s not that suspicious.”

 

Morse didn’t budge an inch.

 

Thursday let out a sigh, and leaned forward in one swift movement to catch Morse under his forelegs and lift him up. The small body went tense and still, but as Thursday gently placed him down in his lap there was the slightest unwinding. With his hands still holding the cat slightly suspended, Thursday resettled himself so that he was more comfortable on the couch, then he slowly released his hold and transferred his hands to rest on Morse’s back.

 

“Why don’t you just sit here for a bit?” he said quietly, mostly grateful that Morse hadn’t protested being lifted up. It wasn’t something Thursday did often.

 

Muscles in Morse’s back corded and released under Thursday’s hands as the lad shifted from side to side, still staring out in to the room. Then it was as though some invisible dam burst and Morse switched down a gear, body sinking lower and front paws tucking under his chest.

 

“Morse?”

 

Alright, well, clearly words weren’t getting him very far. He slipped his left hand down Morse’s side, forming a solid support, and used the other in long strokes from head to mid-back, starting out softly while the lad was still so tense.

 

The first indication that any of it was working was a gradual increase in the pressure on his left hand, as Morse tilted in that direction in minute increments. Then the head lowered a little. A little more. A back leg splayed itself out to the side, and Morse rocked sideways in what seemed like slow motion until he was resting on his side - mostly on top of Thursday’s hand. His head drifted all the way down, until it was sitting on Thursday’s leg.

 

“Mmm,” said Thursday. “Better?” His strokes had grown firmer; now he gentled them again and moved to focus on more specific spots – the ridge of Morse’s shoulders and then behind his ears. The lad tilted his head obligingly, and Thursday felt a smile steal over his face. “What’s got into you tonight, then?”

 

Morse tucked his cheek under so that he had a better view of Thursday, piercing blue eyes looking at him accusingly. The effect was somewhat spoilt by the lad’s drooping eyelids as Thursday ran his fingertips up onto Morse’s forehead.

 

“Wound you up proper, didn’t he, that Barnes? No-one’s going to hurt me lad; they’ll not try anything.”

 

The eyes closed completely, and Morse tipped his head further until it was practically upside down, giving a little wiggle of the rest of his body to flip himself a bit more.

 

Thursday cautiously moved his fingers to pet Morse’s throat. Not something he attempted unless Morse very clearly signalled it would be alright, but he rather thought this counted. His fingertips sank into the slightly longer white fluff there, and he rubbed soothing circles.

 

“We’ll be alright, lad. They probably expected someone who would jump at the chance to work for them. Weren’t expecting what they found in you.”

 

There was a quick burst of vibration from under Thursday’s fingers – almost a purr but not quite, and it halted immediately. Thursday stilled, but after a moment with no further movement from Morse he took up his careful long spirals again.

 

“I daresay they thought you were more trouble than you’re worth.”

 

A paw, previously tucked to Morse’s chest, came up to bat lazily at Thursday’s wrist.

 

“God knows we all do,” Thursday added with fondness.

 

The rumbling purr that started was a proper one this time, deep and confident and sounding a bit like Thursday had stashed a miniature engine on his lap.

 

“It’ll be alright, lad,” Thursday said quietly. “It’ll be alright.”

 

\----------------

 

A week later, that statement came back to bite him in the arse.

 

“I see,” he said icily when Bright informed he and Morse that an independent inspector would be tagging along on Morse’s next change mission. “Anyone we know, is it?”

 

Bright cleared his throat. “The name has not yet been given to me. Officially, it’s in order for the division to be able to make an assessment of our new resource-“ Thursday saw Morse’s twitch “-and pass on any useful information learned about working with shape-shifters in the force.”

 

Thursday nodded stiffly. Morse, where he was standing an extra few feet back next to the wall, said nothing.

 

“Well, I’m sure we’ll be the very model of cooperation, sir.” Inside, Thursday was seething.

 

“Good, good. They’ll be reporting tomorrow morning for your initial brief.”

 

“Initial brief?” Thursday rolled the words on his tongue. “But this is about the Bancroft case isn’t it?”

 

Bright gave him a long look. “The initial brief, in which the case will be discussed, and your plan of action carefully mapped out.”

 

Thursday straightened a bit.

 

Not that they hadn’t done the last one by the book, but it had just been the two of them and Jakes. Morse, _human_ -Morse, had been the one who figured out where the bastards were holed up in the first place, and when they headed out Thursday had basically just told him to sniff around and report what he’d found.

 

“Plan of action,” Thursday said stiffly. “Of course, sir.”

 

Made sense though, didn’t it, with an outsider coming along. Bright would want everything to look all spiffy and official, and Thursday and Morse would have to jump through every hoop the circus could throw at them.

 

He sighed.

 

“Morse?” he asked, in case the lad had anything to add. Silence from behind him. “Well then, thank you for your time, Mr Bright.”

 

Morse followed him out of the office, a straight line only broken by the hands shoved in his pockets.

 

\--------------------------

 

Their new attendee turned out to be mystery man number one from the first couple of visits. Middling height, middling build, dark hair – impossible to pick out of a crowd. He was even camouflaged in a cheaper suit this time. The only things which stood out about him at all were the sharp black line of his eyebrows and the way he held himself – relaxed and poised all at once.

 

“Detective Inspector Davis,” he introduced himself, and looked unflappable while Thursday gave him the hairy eyeball.

 

Detective Inspector his arse.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Thursday said, heavily weighting his words with irony. He wouldn’t want the man to get the wrong impression, now would he?

 

The briefing consisted of Thursday and Morse, Jakes, Bright, two other constables, and their interloper.

 

“Right,” Thursday said. “Jakes, take us through it.”

 

Jakes had gone to CS Bright and volunteered to be on the change work team before it was even confirmed that there was going to be one. Bright had been very impressed by his interest and dedication, as he’d told Thursday. Privately, Thursday thought that it was because Jakes rather liked working with Morse as a cat – it had even led to some softening of his attitude towards the _man_ , which was hilarious because Morse so obviously didn’t know what to do with it.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Jakes said, and straightened from his long-limbed slouch. “We’ve had three suspicious deaths in the past five weeks – death by drowning each time. While there initially appeared to be no connection, and the deaths ruled accidental, DC Morse found new evidence at the victim’s home addresses which leads us to believe that the same individual or individuals were responsible.”

 

And hadn’t that been fun and a half? Thursday had thought Morse was chasing butterflies when he started insisting the deaths were connected, were murders. ‘On what evidence?’ Thursday had said, and four hours later he had a call of complaint from one of the victim’s families and Morse standing triumphant in his office clutching a handful of small cards.

 

Jakes continued. “We identified a series of business cards, all of them different – Dahlia’s flowers, Thomson and Sons’ Funeral Parlour, and so on – but all with the same telephone number, and a time written on the back as well. The number was for a phone box out near Burgess.”  Jakes paused, and pointed it out on a map of Oxford they had pinned up on a board. The locations their three victims had been found were marked in red. “Based on further interviews with widows or relatives who all mentioned changed behaviour or money going missing, we now believe that each of these men was being blackmailed. It’s possible they were killed when they refused to go along with it any further.”

 

“Not a very effective blackmailer, then,” ‘Inspector’ Davis murmured. Thursday ignored him, but it wasn’t a bad point.

 

“Having worked back from the points of entry into the river and what we know about the victims, we’ve identified an area of interest - and several potential suspects. We currently have no solid evidence to obtain a warrant,” and Jakes’ voice dipped on the word solid, because he could never quite forgive Morse’s leaps of intuition, “and so we need to observe each of the suspects and their locations, as well as any known associates.”

 

Thursday took over. “Our most likely man is Arthur Bancroft – he’s got a record of petty theft and blackmail from up to fifteen years back, though as far as we know he’s been clean as a whistle since he got out of prison after the last charge - a year ago. He seems an unlikely murderer, however, so we believe he may have an accomplice. Our plan is to observe him at different times of day both at home and following him. We tried sending plain clothes after him, but he’s a paranoid bugger and caught on surprisingly fast. And he caught the car in the street even faster – closed all his curtains and battened down the hatches. He knows we’re watching him,” Thursday added, “so he’s on his guard.

 

“We’ll do the first excursion tonight – a short operation to work out modes of access and how far in Morse can get without getting noticed.”

 

“Excellent,” Mr Bright said.

 

“We’re not expecting any activity tonight, so you two-“ Thursday nodded to the PCs “-will be here unless you’re needed for emergency backup. Morse, Jakes and I will be onsite.”

 

Jakes wouldn’t normally have come along for a brief reconnoitring mission, but Thursday would rather have an extra man of his along given that-

 

“And of course, Detective Davis, if you wish to accompany us?”

 

Davis nodded. “I would appreciate the opportunity to see how it all works,” he said.

 

Thursday didn’t trust that smooth voice further than he could throw the man.

 

“Right then. We’ll go from here at eight o’clock tonight.”


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday had never seen Morse change. As far as he knew, no one else had either. He wasn’t sure what the big deal was, though he couldn’t imagine it was a pretty thing to watch, but Morse was winding himself up into knots about the evening.

 

“It’ll be fine,” Thursday said as they stood in the locker room at the station. “Just go behind a bush once we’re there. I’ll grab your kit afterwards.”

 

Morse looked around the room, looked at the door.

 

“No point doing it here,” Thursday said, “You’ll get car sick, you know you will.”

 

That was a fact even Morse couldn’t argue with.

 

Once they got to their destination, a couple of streets over from the suspect’s house, Morse sidled off towards the nearest set of bushes and Thursday sat on their visitor so as he didn’t go getting any ideas about following Morse. He bombarded the man with questions about his nick, and Jakes, despite having no idea what was going on, followed his lead. Detective Davis held up remarkably well under questioning.

 

Five minutes later Thursday spotted flashes of a bright form dipping in and out of the street lights towards them, and cut off mid-sentence to get out of the car.

 

“Hullo there,” he said quietly, although he made sure to keep his voice professional with Davis and Jakes listening. “Right – go see what you can find, we’ll be waiting here. Don’t stay for too long, this is just a look-see.”

 

Morse gave a quick double tap against the pavement, and then vanished into the darkness. Thursday got back into the car.

 

“Fascinating,” said Davis, apparently unaware that he’d spoken out loud. “An hour then, you said?”

 

Thursday shrugged – it wasn’t as though Morse had any way to tell the time. “About that.”

 

They sat in the dark. Thursday turned the radio on, quietly, and they listened to the news and the sports. It wouldn’t have been so awkward if it was just Thursday and Jakes - they could have chatted for a bit or just sat quietly - but Thursday felt that extra presence watching and judging the whole time.

 

“It’s ten,” said Davis.

 

Thursday bloody well knew it was ten, because he was cold and tired and hungry, and a bit worried about Morse.

 

“Is it?” he said mildly.

 

“I could do with a hot cup of something,” Jakes said wistfully.

 

“You’ll get something after,” Thursday said sternly. “All hands on deck until he comes back.”

 

“How do you know he isn’t in trouble?” said Davis. Thursday almost laughed.

 

Knowing that was a bit of a problem, with Morse. He was clever, no doubt about it, and more than capable of solving all sorts of things, but he was _always_ in trouble. Still, there shouldn’t have been any reason for anyone to suspect a cat idling around the neighbourhood.

 

“He’ll be back,” said Thursday, and privately hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

 

Fifteen minutes later he noticed a pair of eyes shining in the darkness, and though it could have been anything - a fox, another stray cat - he somehow knew it was Morse.

 

“Be right back,” he said, and gathered Morse’s clothes up from the passenger seat. Jakes hadn’t even snarked over being assigned to the back seat tonight.

 

Folding the clothes under his arm, he opened the car door with as little noise as possible and slid out. He headed towards the same patch of bushes off the road he’d seen Morse go to earlier. A low shadow followed him, and caught up as he moved out of sight of the road.

 

Double checking to see he hadn’t been followed, Thursday dropped down into a crouch.

 

“You alright, lad?” he murmured, and offered his fingers for Morse to sniff.

 

Morse butted his head against them, crowding in close to Thursday’s legs, and Thursday’s quick inspection showed him to be injury-free and looking absolutely fine.

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Thursday said a little awkwardly, putting the clothes down on the low wall beside him and moving around to the front of the bush to stand guard. There were a couple of minutes of quiet rusting and then Morse joined him, looking dishevelled and slightly off balance as he brushed stray twigs out of his hair.

 

“Alright?” Thursday asked, and got a quick nod in return. “Let’s get you in the car then.”

 

It was a couple of months now since Morse had managed to return to his human form after being stuck, and for all that Thursday had only seen him right after the change a few times there was something instantly recognisable about it. Morse moved with a sinuous grace that he didn’t have the rest of the time; Thursday watched him slide smoothly into the car as if half of the joints in his body had been temporarily removed. On the other hand, he kept reaching up to tug at his collar - to scruff at his hair and thumb his jaw as though he’d forgotten what they should feel like.

 

“Right,” Thursday said when they were settled. “Anything to report?”

 

Morse shrugged. “Not much. I watched from the garden for a while.”

 

They waited.

 

“And?” Jakes asked eventually.

 

Morse blinked. “He was in the kitchen – seems to live alone. Went into the living room. Then upstairs for a while. He made some phone calls; the window was a little ajar.”

 

“Could you hear anything?” Thursday asked.

 

“There was a nice tree in the garden. Apple. Good branches,” Morse added thoughtfully. He paused. “Bancroft called two numbers, one after the other. I didn’t hear much of the first conversation; I was climbing. In the second one he seemed to be apologising to someone, but I couldn’t quite make out what for, and he didn’t say a name. Could have been related to our case, or not.”

 

“Hmm,” Thursday said.

 

“I could have jumped to the window,” Morse added. “And when I got there the back door was ajar – he closed it after ten minutes; he’d been taking the rubbish out. Possible ways in, though.”

 

“Alright, we’ll have a full report tomorrow, nothing more to do tonight. Davis, where can I drop you?”

 

Davis got out at the bus station – of course, Thursday thought, he wouldn’t want us to know where he was staying – and the three of them moved off in the car again.

 

“Morse?” Thursday asked. He kept his voice low, careful, because the lad had been a bit spaced out since he’d got in the car. Thursday hadn’t been about to comment while their guest was still tagging along.

 

“There were starlings,” Morse said, slightly dreamily. “In the tree.” He gave a slightly wistful sigh – not that different to how Jakes had sounded earlier while thinking about a hot cuppa.

 

Jakes gave a low cough in the back of the car, and Thursday manfully supressed his own reaction.

 

“Starlings,” he said. “You don’t say?”

 

Morse’s head swung his way. “I didn’t catch one. I mean,” he said, stumbling over the words, “I didn’t try.”

 

_Christ_. Thursday looked at Jakes in the mirror, but the DS looked tickled pink if anything.

 

“That’s good,” Thursday said seriously. Then, “Well done tonight, Morse.”

 

Morse nodded, and went back to staring out the window.

 

Thursday held Jakes back for a moment when they got out at Cowley.

 

“I assume I don’t need to say-“ he started, and Jakes straightened and looked slightly offended.

 

“Of course not, sir.”

 

“Good man,” said Thursday, and clapped him on the shoulder.

 

\-------------------------

 

Morse looked exhausted the next morning. Thursday had never quite figured out how his metabolism worked – the lad seemed to sleep excessive amounts as a cat and then barely at all as a human. Did changing take a lot of energy? The purple shadows under Morse’s eyes said maybe; or at least that he hadn’t managed as much sleep as usual.

 

Over the course of the morning, Morse gradually became more and more horizontal at his desk – his elbows sliding further out to each side as he pored over whatever file he was investigating (undoubtedly without Thursday’s knowledge or permission). When Thursday caught him with his eyes closed, mouth slightly open and head slumped in one hand, he kicked the chair leg and found guilty amusement in the lad’s wide-eyed startlement as he jerked upright.

 

“My office,” he said. “Now.”

 

Morse trailed him in like a schoolboy expecting a whipping, standing with a hangdog expression while Thursday closed the blinds.

 

“I’m going out for a bit,” Thursday announced. “Be a couple of hours probably. I’ll lock the door.”

 

The look on Morse’s face remained uncomprehending.

 

“Get a bit of kip,” Thursday spelled out for him. “We’re going out again tonight, I need you awake and alert.”

 

\----------------------

 

He got back about two – he’d had a meeting, lingered over lunch, and reported to Bright about the previous night. There was no sign of their visiting snoop so far.

 

He let himself into the office as quietly as possible, only opening the door halfway so that no one would be able to see into his office.

 

At first glance, it was empty. Thursday felt an unexpected stab of disappointment, and another of slight irritation; he hadn’t been kidding when he said he needed Morse on top form.

 

On the verge of opening the office blinds, he hesitated. The door had still been locked. While it was easily openable from the inside if Morse wanted to get out, he wouldn’t have been able to lock it again afterwards.

 

Moving further in, Thursday scanned a bit more carefully now. It was entirely possible Morse had tucked himself out of the way just in case someone did enter while Thursday was out.

 

Thursday rounded the desk - and there the little scamp was, a bright orange and white coil in the centre of Thursday’s chair. He looked incredibly comfortable nestled against the worn brown leather of the seat cushion.

 

Thursday let out a huff, and Morse’s head jerked up, eyes blinking drowsily.

 

“Had a good sleep, did you?” Thursday asked conversationally.

 

Morse put his head back down again, though his eyes remained watchfully on Thursday.

 

“Very nice,” said Thursday, “but you’ll have to get up now.”

 

Several complicated movements occurred in a long seamless chain, and at the end of it Morse was sitting up on his haunches and twisting his neck at an impossible angle to wash his back.

 

“Get,” said Thursday, making a shooing motion.

 

Morse paused in his washing to stare at him, unimpressed.

 

Sensing that some tribute was needed, and inwardly chiding himself for giving in to a cat, Thursday approached a little closer and held out his hand. Morse gave it the obligatory delicate sniff, and then happily rubbed his cheek against Thursday’s fingers.

 

“Ah, come on now,” said Thursday, softening. “Needed back at your desk, you are. No more of this lollygagging around in the middle of the day.”

 

He scratched obligingly behind Morse’s ears, and then Morse shook himself and gave a small sneeze.

 

\--------------

 

The evening’s surveillance went smoothly, Morse even returning early this time.

 

“He had a visitor,” Morse said, slightly out of breath as he piled back into the car. “They went into the kitchen and seemed to argue. Windows were closed,” he added.

 

“What did he look like, this visitor?”

 

Morse hesitated, which was unusual for him.

 

“Morse?”

 

“Well,” Morse said, then paused again. “He was, uh, he was taller than Bancroft by a few inches. A bit more heavy-set. He was wearing a flat cap. He had a crooked nose.”

 

“Anything else? Hair colour?”

 

Morse shook his head, and Thursday felt a surge of frustration. “Thought you were supposed to be the observant one,” he muttered, and then immediately regretted it.

 

Morse’s eyes caught in the light of the streetlight, then the lad looked away.

 

“We’ll get you to look at arrest books in the morning,” Thursday said.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that while there is a case going on here, it is tangential to my story line of Morse-is-a-cat and thus has plot holes spread through it like Swiss cheese. I excuse this as being because while Thursday and Morse might know all the details of it, they did not see fit to communicate them to me ;)

It turned out to be unnecessary to get Morse to look anywhere for their man from the night before, since he came to them.

 

“Body found down by the Cherwell,” Strange greeted them as Thursday and Morse arrived in the morning. The hot cup of tea Thursday had been looking forward to at his desk would have to be put off, it seemed. “Out by Church Meadow. A couple of uniforms on their way out there now.”

 

“Alright,” Thursday said, turning back the way they’d come. “Morse, you’re still with me. Jakes?”

 

Strange shook his head. “He’s out doing a follow up on the Carver case this morning.”

 

“Fill him in when he gets back. We’ll probably be done out there by then.”

 

They sat in silence for most of the drive, only a, “You think it’s one of this lot again?” and a terse nod exchanged between them.  Morse pulled into the road along to St Clement’s church, and they left the car at the end of it beside a marked police car and one Thursday recognised as belonging to the pathologist.

 

“There,” Thursday said, and pointed down to the side of the river further up. They crossed a narrow green, dew soaking the hems of their trousers, and went through a gap in the hedge while a constable held back the branches. The small riverside path was a tight squeeze for one, let alone the three of them. They filtered into a line, and moved in the direction the PC indicated. Rounding the next corner, they found the crime scene.

 

DeBryn looked up at their approach, crouched over a body lying on its back. “Inspector. Morse. Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Thursday raised an eyebrow at the apparent cheerfulness, and turned his attention to the man on the ground.

 

“Doctor,” Morse greeted DeBryn, and smiled. For all the standoffishness Morse had felt the need to direct Thursday’s way after he’d been restored to his former self, he seemed to be easier with DeBryn. On the other hand, Thursday didn’t think that Morse still turned up to get cat hair all over DeBryn’s sofas.

 

“Well?” Thursday asked.

 

“Well, he appears to be a perfectly ordinary middle aged man who took a tumble into the river,” DeBryn said. “There isn’t another mark on him. I’d estimate he’d been in the river for about seven hours – they fished him out about an hour ago. They had to fight off the swans.”

 

Morse and Thursday both looked down to the water, where several swans huddled watchfully. It was a peaceful scene, now. The churned mud on the bank suggested that it certainly hadn’t been so, earlier. They turned their attention back to their victim.

 

Thursday checked his watch. “Seven hours. About one in the morning, then,” he said to Morse.

 

Morse hummed, staring intently at the body. Unusual for the lad, normally he was looking anywhere but.

 

“And before you ask, yes, very similar to all of the other cases,” DeBryn said.

 

“Where are his shoes?” Morse asked, and Thursday and DeBryn both cast their eyes towards the man’s bare toes.

 

“At the bottom of the river, I should imagine. Might have kicked them off trying to get to the surface.”

 

“And his socks?” Morse persisted. “He’s unlikely to have removed those while he was trying to keep from drowning, isn’t he?”

 

Thursday considered this for a moment, then looked back at the pathologist. “Any identification?”

 

“Nothing on him, apparently,” DeBryn said. “Unless it’s stitched into his underwear.”

 

Morse looked up at that, and moved closer to Thursday for a moment. “I think it’s the man from last night,” he said, low enough that no one else could hear.

 

Thursday considered this. “You think or you know?” he asked quietly.

 

After glancing at the man’s face again, Morse said, “I – it’s the same nose.”

 

Thursday snorted. “Oh, that’ll go down well in court.”

 

Morse looked at the corpse, at DeBryn, then sideways at Thursday. “I’d need to have another look at him.”

 

Thursday waited.

 

“You know.”

 

The penny dropped. “ _Oh_ ,” Thursday said, and felt incredibly slow. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t known cat vision was different than human – he should have thought of that last night while he was haranguing the lad about the colour of the man’s hair. “Right. Well.”

 

He turned to DeBryn, who had gone back to prodding at the body. “When can we drop by? We’d like to do a follow up with the body as soon as possible.”

 

DeBryn turned with what was undoubtedly another quip ready on his tongue, and Thursday put every ounce of gravity he could muster into his expression. The pathologist looked puzzled, but said, “Well, I could put a rush on it if it’s urgent?”

 

“Actually,” Morse put in. “Before the autopsy would be better?”

 

“I see,” DeBryn said slowly. “In that case I’ll meet you back at the Radcliffe? It won’t take a few minutes to process it once we’re there.”

 

\------------------------

 

“What’s this really about?” DeBryn said, once they were back at the Radcliffe and he’d told one of his assistants to get the body laid out.

 

“Morse needs to make an identification,” Thursday said.

 

DeBryn looked at Morse expectantly.

 

“I saw him, last night,” Morse said. “While I was a cat.”

 

DeBryn seemed to come to the correct conclusion a lot quicker than Thursday had. “Oh, of course; differences in the retina. Did you get a clear view?"

 

“I was close enough,” Morse said. “It’s just… different.”

 

“Fascinating,” said DeBryn. “I should have asked, is the morgue alright? We could have set him up in one of the viewing rooms.”

 

Morse shrugged.

 

The morgue, as it turned out, was not alright. As soon as he was through the door Morse clung like a burr to Thursday’s trouser leg, jumping at every new sight and sound. Thursday imagined it had to smell horrible in there to a sensitive nose – dead bodies and stringent disinfectant - and the lights were very bright.

 

“We’ll need to get him up there somehow,” said Thursday. “On another table?”

 

Morse mewed his disapproval.

 

“Alright, alright,” Thursday said. “Not like you haven’t sat on worse things. Well then?”

 

He stooped, and held his hands out in front of him. Morse didn’t even bother taking the time to look dubious, sliding around the front of Thursday’s ankle and pressing against him the whole time until Thursday had him up and in his arms.

 

Thursday turned so that Morse would be able to see the dead man, but Morse was wriggling against the arm Thursday was supporting him with – enough that Thursday was worried about losing his hold on him.  

 

“Morse, hold still. _Morse_.”

 

The squirming didn’t stop. Thursday’s grip slipped, and there was a heart stopping second where he thought Morse would fall – his adrenaline paying no attention to the fact that cats tended to land on their feet. Then there was a mad scrambling, and Thursday winced as claws dug in a little too far.

 

After a breath where he had to puff out against cat fur they all stopped to reassess where they’d ended up, which was, apparently, with Morse on his shoulder.

 

“Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Thursday said, aggrieved. His hand hovered by his side, ready to whip up and steady the lad if he needed it, but Morse seemed to have the whole balancing act in hand.

 

A small pink nose leaned forward into the edge of Thursday’s vision, and Thursday held very still as the weight on his shoulder shifted.

 

Whiskers tickled at his jaw line, and Morse took his time looking intently at their corpse.

 

Finally the form on Thursday’s shoulder shuffled and sunk down a little, and there was a deliberate double tap against the collar of his jacket.

 

“How’m I supposed to get you down then?” asked Thursday. Eventually the feat was accomplished by him crouching a bit and Morse doing a flying leap onto the tiles, skidding a little on the landing. There was then the requisite minute or so of industrious washing while Thursday and DeBryn averted their eyes and pretended they hadn’t seen anything, before Morse looked at Thursday and chirped.

 

“It _is_ him?” said Thursday. “Hmm, interesting. That’s probable cause, though I’ll have to discuss with Mr Bright how we’ll list you as a witness, if it comes to it.”

 

Morse was officially cleared for change-work at the station, but Thursday could still imagine it throwing some unexpected barriers in the way at court. Still, they could always say Morse saw it without saying _how_ , exactly.

 

“Right then, we’ll be off. Morse, did you want to-“

 

Morse was already trotting away from him, apparently over his fear of the morgue. He tentatively pushed at the swing door with one paw until it nudged open, then harder and snuck through the resulting gap.

 

“I’d almost forgotten,” marvelled DeBryn as soon as Morse was out of sight.

 

“Forgotten?”

 

The doctor gestured at the door, and it took Thursday a moment to comprehend.

 

“Oh, Morse?”

 

Because of course DeBryn hadn’t seen Morse as a cat for a couple of months now. Thursday didn’t know how to say that Morse was more Morse as a cat to him than as a person. Instead he nodded.

 

“He seems to be doing well though. No after effects?”

 

“From when he was stuck, you mean? I don’t think so. I haven’t asked.”

 

The doctor treated him to a mildly curious look, and then dropped the subject to retrieve the victim’s personal effects. Which turned out to be nothing.

 

“What do you mean, _nothing_?” Thursday asked.

 

“Well, aside from his clothes, of course. I did tell you so at the scene, inspector.”

 

Thursday cast his mind back. “I thought you just meant he didn’t have a driver’s license on him. Someone took all of his stuff before they dumped him in, then?”

 

The door swung open again and Morse strode in, hair ruffled and tie slung undone round his neck. Thursday pursed his lips in disapproval, and nodded at it. Morse knotted it reluctantly, as though it pained him to pull it tight.

 

“Pick up the clothes, will you, Morse?” Thursday said. Then, “Let us know when the autopsy’s done, doctor.”

 

DeBryn nodded, and they left.

 

\--------------------

 

“Assuming he’s another victim, then,” Thursday said when they were gathered back at the station, having filled Jakes in.

 

“They might have been arguing last night over whatever he was being blackmailed with,” Jakes suggested. “Maybe that’s what keeps happening – they stand up to him and he kills them.”

 

“Morse?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Morse said slowly. “Yes, they argued, but they didn’t seem to leave on terrible terms.”

 

“We should have followed him last night,” Thursday said to himself. “But then, we couldn’t have, we didn’t know about him til he was gone.”

 

Morse stiffened slightly beside him.

 

“We’ll have to work something out,” Thursday said. “Get a bit closer somehow, so that we’re able to watch from a distance at least. It doesn’t feel right anyway, you being in there without backup.”

 

“I’m-“

 

“-fine,” Thursday finished. “I know. Still.”

 

“Pity we don’t have another shifter,” Jakes said, and Thursday raised an eyebrow. “Well, someone to act as a go between – pass on messages.”

 

Thursday half-nodded. “Anyway, we haven’t got enough for a warrant, but we could have a little chat with Bancroft. That would rather give the game away though – we’d lose the chance for further surveillance.”

 

“I could try and get in tonight?” Morse said.

 

Thursday hesitated. It was the next logical step, but there was no easy excuse for Morse to be in the house and presumably a limited number of hiding spaces. And while if Bancroft found him his first thought should hardly be ‘undercover police officer,’ there was no guaranteeing how he’d react.

 

“Alright,” said Thursday. “We need to find out what’s going on. You’ll go in, and we’ll move the car up to the street corner this time; see if we can get a view with the binoculars without tipping him or anyone else off.”

 

\---------------------------

 

They went as soon as it was dark – four of them in the end since CS Bright had insisted they inform Detective Davis of their plans.

 

Thursday watched with the binoculars until Morse disappeared over the fence next door to Bancroft’s, then handed them off to Jakes.

 

“Oh, hello,” said Jakes after ten minutes, and Thursday snapped his attention back to the house, hand already reaching for the binoculars.

 

“What is it?” he said.

 

“It’s Morse.”

 

Jakes passed the lenses over, but now Thursday could see without them, the night turning Morse a shadowy brown blur as he bombed it back towards them.

 

“Jesus,” muttered Thursday, and hauled himself out of the car.

 

Morse didn’t slow down until the last second, practically ploughing into Thursday’s legs. He batted hurriedly at Thursday’s ankle until Thursday started moving towards the house, then sped along ahead in an easy lope as Thursday waved Jakes out to follow them, picking up his pace.

 

As they turned up the path Morse suddenly lost speed, and waited until Thursday caught up before he ran over to tap on the front door and vanish up the side wall around the back of the house in a blink of an eye.

 

Right then, thought Thursday, and waited a beat until Jakes was right behind him.

 

The front door gave in with a satisfying thud as Thursday crashed into it with his side, though he knew he’d be sore in the morning. He really was getting too old for this. 

 

“Come out,” he yelled. “Police!”

 

The lights were on in the hall; no one there. The place smelt musty, with a faint odour of boiled ham. Thursday jerked his head left and Jakes slid past him, then he took the stairs. The worn wood creaked alarmingly loudly underfoot and he cursed inwardly; there was a creaking echo behind him and he whipped around only to find Davis was following him. He scowled, and carried on.

 

The light was on in the upstairs hallways too, revealing faded flowery wallpaper. Not Bancroft’s choice, Thursday would have guessed. He peered around the open door into the nearest room; dark and full of boxes.

 

Jakes’ voice called up, sudden and loud. “Sir!” and then, “ _Shit!_ ”

 

Thursday pounded down the stairs, shoving past Davis on the way. The banister wobbled under his grip and he supported himself by skipping his hand along the wall instead, hitting the floor running and following the trail of open doors. Dining room, kitchen, back hall; there had been the briefest glimpse of a body and blood along the way and then he was through the back door, out into the long, narrow garden and down the path to catch up with Jakes.

 

“Well?” he demanded, hunching over to catch his breath. He couldn’t see very well in the dark, there was only the light coming from the house.

 

“Blighter was still here,” Jakes said. He sounded annoyed he hadn’t caught him. “It’s alright though, Morse went after him.”


	7. Chapter 7

_“It’s alright though, Morse went after him.”_

 

Thursday took a moment to process that.

 

“Christ.”

 

They went back in, and Thursday took a look at Mr Bancroft in the living room. Gutted like a fish.

 

“Jakes, go and call it in. And then sit on the radio in case Morse calls through. You,” he said to Davis, because if the man was here he could damn well be useful, “go and stand on the front door.”

 

Thursday had a quick look around while he was waiting, using his handkerchief when he needed to lift anything since he didn’t have any gloves. Nothing suspicious in here, from what he could see. He glanced at the door, and again a few minutes later, because why hadn’t Jakes come back in once he had the radio in hand?

 

A police car pulled up outside, lights flashing but sirens off, and as soon as he had a guard on the body Thursday went out to relieve Jakes.

 

“Anything?” he asked on opening the car door.

 

Jakes shook his head. It was cold out here, and Jakes was chafing his hands together for warmth.

 

“Alright,” said Thursday. You get back in there and take a proper look around – the whole house. I want to know what the hell was going on in there. If I’m not here when you get back, get a lift back with the others.”

 

Jakes nodded and got out of the car.

 

Thursday walked around the driver’s side and got in. Davis slid in the back two minutes later, while he was still staring contemplatively at the radio.

 

“There’s no need for you to be here,” Thursday said with an audible edge to his voice.

 

“Oh, I think there is. I’m supposed to be getting a feel for the whole operation. Seeing how things work.”

 

“Nothing to be done for the moment. You might as well go and get some sleep.”

 

Thursday’s point was undermined as the radio crackled. It was nothing though – a call out for assistance with a public disturbance. His eyes slipped closed for a moment. Opened again.

 

It had been what, twenty minutes? Half an hour? How far could Morse have got in that time? Surely the assailant hadn’t continued that far on foot – he must have either had a vehicle nearby or he lived within a reasonable distance.

 

Thursday’s hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel.

 

“I think-“

 

“Whatever you’re about to say,” Thursday said, enunciating each word. “Don’t.”

 

In the end, he went back to the station. If it hadn’t been for Inspector Davis it was possible that he would have stayed out all night, driving up and down the streets and listening to the police radio in case someone found Morse. But there Davis was, a presence which was somehow subtly threatening

 

One of the hardest decisions had been what to do with Morse’s things. Did Thursday leave them at the scene, behind the same bush, so that Morse could have something to change into if he found his way back there? Or did he assume the lad was far enough away that that was unlikely, in which case he didn’t want to leave what he suspected might be Morse’s only jacket out to get soaked in the morning dew. What would Morse do? What would Morse expect Thursday to do? And where the _hell_ was he?

 

Eventually, Thursday went home. It would be just as easy for the duty officers to give him a call there. Still, it rubbed him the wrong way – a man missing on an operation, an investigation left hanging in the air.

 

He tossed and turned, and couldn’t sleep.

 

It must have been another couple of hours until he heard the faint scrabbling at the bedroom door. His heart turned over in his chest, and his eyes closed against the darkness in sheer relief that he’d thought to leave the kitchen window open.

 

He got up, trying to be quiet, and crept to the door, blocking the entrance with his feet as he opened it so that nothing could get past him and then shuffling out into the hallway himself.

 

“Morse?” he said, voice thick. Fur outlined in moonlight angled itself in his direction. “Let me just get the-“

 

He drew the bedroom door behind him and moved to the top of the stairs, groping for the light switch. The sudden glare from the bulb made both he and Morse blink in concert, and it took a few seconds of squinting before he was able to give the cat a thorough once over.

 

“You’re soaked!” He kept his voice hushed, not wanting to wake anyone up. “What…” But now he heard the rain tapping at the windows, a sound which had blended into the background before.

 

Morse huddled in on himself, small and miserable; more the colour of wet clay than his usual dull orange.

 

“Alright, lad,” Thursday said quietly. “Let’s get you sorted out, eh? Come on, better go to the bathroom.”

 

Morse tailed him down the hall, slinking low to the ground as though the weight of the water was pulling him down. Once he was in, Thursday shut the bathroom door behind him.

 

“Hop on here then,” Thursday said, dropping the toilet lid down and putting a towel on it. Morse jumped up, and Thursday was treated to a closer view of the ginger brown fur plastered to his sides. God, he was skinny when he wasn’t covered in his usual puff of fur.

 

Thursday grabbed another towel from the cupboard by the bath. “Hold still,” he said, and dragged the towel down Morse’s back. He felt Morse tensing to avoid getting pulled along with it, and switched his motions to big circles over Morse’s fur, trying to ruff the towel over as much surface area as he could. After a minute he let the towel drop in a pool around Morse, and huge blue eyes looked up at him from clumped and spiked fur.

 

“You’re shaking,” murmured Thursday, as he took in the slight shivers which swept over the small frame. “This won’t do. Why don’t you have a hot shower, and I’ll find your clothes? There’s more towels in the cupboard.”

  

“What is it, Fred?” Win asked sleepily as he entered their bedroom again.

 

“It’s Morse, love. He’s soaked through; just needs to warm up a bit.”

 

“He alright?”

 

“Seems to be. Go back to sleep.”

 

He took the bag of Morse’s things out of the cupboard and went back along to the bathroom. He could hear the hiss of the shower inside, and hot steam rushed into his face as he opened the door and placed the bag just inside.

 

“I’m going to make a cuppa,” he said around the door, then pulled it closed again.

 

He boiled water and steeped the tea on autopilot, yawning as he looked out into the dark back garden. The kitchen clock said it was three in the morning. There was a trail of wet muddy footprints from the window across the counter, and Thursday winced and wiped at them with a cloth. Nothing to be done about the ones on the floor at the moment, they could wait until morning. The chill had crept in through the window; he drew it closed now with a shiver. They were going to have to start turning the heating on soon, the nights were getting colder.

 

A plaintive meow came from behind him, and he turned to find Morse in the doorway. The lad must have dried off after his shower and then transformed again; in contrast to before his fur looked like it had been puffed out with a hairdryer.

 

“Suppose you won’t be needing this, then?” Thursday said, lifting the second cup of tea. “Milk?”

 

Morse made a small noise which could have been agreement.

 

Thursday considered a moment. “Nothing that can’t wait until morning then? Alright.”

 

He pulled the milk bottle out of the fridge and poured some in Morse’s favourite saucer, focusing on not spilling any as he carried it next door.

 

“Here you are then,” he said, setting it down in the middle of the floor and taking a seat in the armchair. The old, worn shape of it moulded to him as he sank into it, and he cradled his own cup with a sigh.

 

Morse lapped at the milk with great industry.

 

“Should have given you a pen and paper while you were upstairs,” said Thursday thoughtfully.

 

When he considered that thought a bit further it went  _for the few minutes you were willing to be human_ , and his brows drew down in a frown. He had the feeling that if he mentioned this behaviour to DeBryn the doctor would suggest it wasn’t entirely healthy.

 

Healthy for what, thought? Morse wasn’t strictly human, not all the time. Who was to say what was and wasn’t normal for him? Thursday couldn’t deny the changes in his bagman in the last couple of months, and didn’t know if it was due to finally having a safe outlet for this side of himself, or some kind of permanent change from being stuck for so long in his other form.

 

The thought of telling Morse he had to transform back to a human in Thursday’s house felt wrong – after all he’d only just managed to establish this as a place where the lad  _could_  be a cat if he wanted to. He couldn’t help but feel protective of Morse here, and if Morse wanted to stay a cat for the whole of tonight even though it would have made a great deal more logical sense for him to stay a man for at least another half hour, well…

 

“Good to see you safe,” he said eventually, and Morse glanced up, licking his whiskers clean. After a moment, he added, “You should have seen Jakes. All, ‘oh, don’t worry about it, sir – Morse is on him.’” Thursday snorted. “Thinks you hung the moon, he does.”

 

Morse’s look became slightly more squinting, and he raised a paw to lick with great dignity.

 

“Glad you’re safe,” Thursday repeated, and it was all he could allow himself. More than that would send Morse running, or get his back up, and the last thing Thursday needed to deal with tomorrow was Morse in a snit.

 

\---------------

 

Morning, and Thursday entered the dining room to find Morse attempting to keep up with Joan in conversation. Sam’s contributions were limited to the occasional muffled ‘uh huh’ through a mouthful of breakfast. Thursday watched from the door for a moment before backtracking to the kitchen.

 

“Here’s your tea, love.“ Win passed him a mug as he entered, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek and a hum to indicate that he might be up and dressed, but expecting conversation before the first cup of tea was optimistic. He took a cautious sip, and burned his tongue.

 

“Breakfast’s on the table,” she said. “I’ve already had mine.”

 

He checked his watch, and thought it was just as well he’d brought the Jag home with him last night.

 

“Morning, everybody,” he said as he walked into the dining room.

 

The responding chorus of “Morning, Dad,” and “Good Morning, sir,” made him smile. After eying Morse for a moment he decided work could wait until they were in the car, and nabbed himself a couple of slices of toast.

 

“Pass the marmalade, would you, Morse?”

 

\--------------------

 

“So?” Thursday asked as soon as they were out the front door. “What happened?”

 

By the time they’d reached the station Morse had filled him in on his movements the night before – primarily that he’d chased the suspect to a car, managed to jump in the back when the man chucked a bag of something in there, and then been trapped in the car for hours after the man got out until some passing drunken stranger had seen him pawing desperately at the window and smashed it to let him out.

 

“He abandoned it,” Morse added as they walked in and Thursday flagged Jakes down. “I should be able to trace back to it.”

 

“You couldn’t have changed and looked at a street sign? Or the reg, for that matter?” Thursday said, disapproval in his voice. Nevermind that the lad would have been naked – he could have checked that there was no one around, and it would only have been for a moment.

 

“I, uh…” Morse looked straight across the room, not meeting Thursday’s eyes. “I panicked,” he said, not even attempting to make any excuses.

 

Thursday opened his mouth – to say what exactly he didn’t know – and then Jakes reached them.

 

“You’re alright then,” Jakes said. “Did you catch him?”

 

Thursday’s lips twitched, and Morse shook his head. “Morse has got a bead on the car he used,” Thursday said. “Why don’t the two of you track it down? Let me know what you find.”

 

And paperwork for the rest of the morning it was.

 


	8. Chapter 8

That day and the next were business as usual – following up investigations on the murder. Thursday saw snatches of Morse during the day when he came to report some new piece of information – the murder weapon, the car being reported stolen a few days ago, some theory about how the victims were chosen – and no sign of him in the evenings. Much more how things normally were. The family had a barbeque the first night – probably the last of the good weather before autumn – and Thursday kept reminding himself not to trip over Morse before realising again that he wasn’t there.

 

DeBryn had once told him that Morse wasn’t a pet, and of course he wasn’t, of course not, except that he sort of  _was_. It was, however, a predominantly one way affair – the Thursday family might, in whatever peculiar way, consider Morse _theirs_ , but Thursday sometimes wasn’t sure that Morse had any attachment to them whatsoever. Yes, the lad turned up every now and then and seemed to enjoy his time there, but Thursday didn’t think he thought twice about it if he didn’t visit for two weeks straight. Admittedly, Thursday suspected that sometimes the occasional large gap between visits occurred _because_ Morse was trying to make the point that he was quite happy not doing so, but...

 

Complicated sod, was Morse.

 

The mysterious Inspector Davis hung around at the fringes of their operation, requesting occasional updates but not overly intruding or trying to interfere. One thing Thursday’s watchful gaze did catch was that he stopped by Morse’s desk out in the response room a couple of times, never for very long but obviously trying to get something out of the lad. Each time, Morse considered Davis with a quizzical expression, presumably trying to figure out what his game was, but then shook it off and moved on with his work.

 

Thursday didn’t shake it off. Sending Davis here to ‘observe’ them wasn’t a final move, it was barely an opening one.

 

When he took his concerns to Bright, the chief superintendant was defensive. Once again, it was ‘orders from Division,’ and ‘cooperation,’ and ‘for the good of the station.’ Thursday thought sourly that Bright, despite being a rather political animal on the whole, was out of his depth on this one.

 

“There have been no moves against Morse,” Bright had pointed out, and what was Thursday supposed to say? That this whole thing stank to high heaven? He’d already tried that. ‘Let me know if there’s anything concrete,’ Bright had said, but fat lot of good that would do.

 

“Lunch?” Thursday asked Morse on his way out, and the lad dragged his eyes away from what he was working on.

 

“What? Oh, yes.”

 

They went to the pub two streets over, the Horse and Plough. Outside hung a rather uninspired sign, on which the horse looked more like an ox – thick cut and bulky – and you’d have to squint sideways to identify the plough as such. It was one of Thursday’s favourites in the immediate area though, which for them constituted anything that could be reached in a five minute walk from the station’s front doors. The Horse and Plough usually lit a fire in the winter, and in the summer there was a back door out onto a small patio with a couple of tables and a couple of forlorn flower boxes. It was clean, had reasonably quick service, and served an ale which had become one of Morse’s favourites.

 

Thursday watched as Morse drank the first sip of his half-pint with relish, wiping away the foam from his mouth with the side of his hand. It was an almost identical motion to the one he’d seen not a week before – when Morse had drunk milk in his living room.

 

“How’re things going?” Thursday asked, and Morse’s slow blink was enough to prompt him to clarify. “It’s only your second of these cases – and the first was over much quicker.”

 

A quick, tense smile. “Well, we seem to be on a break from that side of it at the moment.”

 

Thursday considered this. Certainly, it was possible they could gather enough evidence now to solve the case without further change-work being needed, although it was still logged as such. But despite their recent leads, his gut was telling him this wasn’t over yet.

 

“True enough,” was all he said. “Bit different from the last one.”

 

Pale eyes darted his way, assessed him quickly. “You mean because of Davis?” Morse asked shrewdly.

 

Thursday hmmed, and unwrapped his sandwiches. He passed the extra one to Morse, who didn’t normally eat lunch if left to his own devices. Thursday couldn’t remember saying a word to Win about it, but she still packed an extra most days now.  

 

“Because of a few things. Last time you didn’t have to deal with so many people. Or dead bodies. Or getting trapped in a car.”

 

He left that one hanging, and bit into the sandwich.

 

Beside him, Morse grimaced, then took a bite of his own sandwich. They ate in silence for a minute, Thursday willing to wait him out.

 

“Things are different, when I’m… like that,” Morse said eventually, and Thursday stilled to listen. Morse never talked about his experiences as a cat, or what it was like when he changed. “Things don’t seem the same, and I don’t… think the same,” he continued with some difficulty.

 

Thursday carefully lifted his sandwich again, not looking directly at Morse, and took another small bite. Morse inhaled slowly.

 

“When I saw the body - Bancroft’s - in the house,  I didn’t… And in the car…” Morse went silent.

 

Thursday had thought about that, since. Morse didn’t do well in cars when he was a cat at the best of times, and to be confined in one with no guarantee of ever being let out… It might have reminded him of being trapped in his flat, when he was stuck as a cat; he could have died then if Thursday hadn’t found him. This time he _could_ have gotten himself out though, broken a window himself rather than needing to be rescued by a passer-by. If only he’d thought to change. If he’d been able to.

 

And Christ, how the hell did Thursday phrase that one?

 

“Anyone might have been, hmm, _alarmed_ ; situation like that. Mess with your shifting, did it?”

 

Morse’s hand hitting the table sounded loud, even against the background noise of the pub. “I’m a trained police officer,” he snapped, and Thursday felt like an idiot for not realising before that the lad was angry with himself.

 

“If it works differently-“

 

“If I can’t control it, then what’s the point in…” Morse trailed off, then sighed and turned his face away.

 

Thursday considered his next words carefully. “There’s lots of cases where special abilities have downside, Morse. Those brilliant mathematicians with no social skills. I heard rumours of people in Africa who can change into elephants – they can never live in a proper house, just in case. You just have to put up with the bad along with the good.”

 

Morse didn’t say anything, although he shifted slightly in his seat.

 

Thursday inspected his half-eaten sandwich, then his drink, then the room. “We’ve never talked about this,” he said. There was a long pause, as he belatedly considered whether broaching the topic was a good idea and Morse noticeably failed to ask him what it was they’d never talked about. Finally, Thursday sighed, placing his glass down on the slightly sticky table. “I always thought it was a gift.”

 

There was a slight huff of breath from Morse, but nothing more.

 

“You don’t,” Thursday asked, but it was a statement rather than a question.

 

Nothing.

 

“Morse, I-“

 

And finally Morse stirred, fingers coming up to tug at his ear as he faced Thursday head on. His gaze bored into Thursday, but there was still a long moment before he spoke.

 

“My father knew,” he said. Thursday kept his face impassive, a thousand questions hovering on his lips. Morse gave a shrug. “I don’t know if it happened when I was younger, too, but I don’t think so. The time I remember was when I was… six or seven I think. He found me, changing.”

 

There was a commotion at the table next to them as the occupants rose to greet someone new – laughter and shaking hands.

 

Morse was quiet for a moment, fingertips running along the edge of the table.

 

“He didn’t think of it as a gift,” he said finally, and quiet outrage bloomed in Thursday’s stomach.

 

“No?” Thursday heard the danger in his voice, reined it back.

 

Morse’s smile was strained. “I tried not to, at home, after that. I’d never thought that it could be… useful like this.”

 

Thursday ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “It’s not just about it being  _useful_ , Morse,” he said carefully. “It’s who you are.”

 

It was as though his words were a direct hit, and Morse’s defences rose in the line of his shoulders and the jut of his chin.

 

“Alright,” Thursday said. “Let’s talk about the case, then, shall we?”

 

\---------------------

 

Friday, and no great no developments on the case. No Morse in the evening, either, and Win had taken to worriedly asking if the lad was ill or something was wrong – for all that he had stayed away just as long before.

 

“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend,” Sam had suggested smartly, earning a roll of the eyes from Thursday and a pout from Joan.

 

It was an interesting point though – how did Morse handle hiding this in a long term relationship? Had he ever had one? He’d obviously hidden it well enough from most of his family, once he knew to do so. The sister had had a notion, but that was all – he’d never told her. Thursday sighed, his fingers twitching at the well-worn path of his thoughts. He didn’t half want to bring Morse’s father back just to tell him where to go. Morse had deserved better.  

 

“You said you saw him earlier?” Win fretted.

 

“Yes, love,” Thursday soothed. “He was at work as normal. I’m sure he’s just down the pub with some friends.”

 

”I made chicken,” she said, and gestured towards the oven. He couldn’t help but smile.

 

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to worry you,” he said. “You know what cats are like.”

 

That earned him a frown, and he took her hands and squeezed them.

 

“Well,” she said after a few seconds. “I’ll save him some and wrap it up – it’ll be good for a few days.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll like that,” Thursday said, and kissed her on the cheek.

 

\--------------

 

With no urgent enquiries to follow up there was no need to go in on the Saturday, which meant chores around the house and giving Sam a lift to the park. Thursday stood off to the side of the pitch, drinking tea from a thermos Win had handed him as he watched some of the game.

 

When they took a break to eat oranges and have a drink, Sam came over and smiled with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. “I’m going over to Fred’s, after. Probably won’t be home for dinner.”

 

Thursday nodded. “I’ll let your mother know.”

 

“See you, Dad.”

 

Thursday was just walking back to the car when he saw a familiar shape crossing the far corner of the park. The surprise of it stopped him in his tracks.

 

It was ridiculous, of course. It wasn’t as though there weren’t hundreds of ginger cats in Oxford. And even if on some slim chance it was Morse, the lad had the right to roam where and when he wanted.

 

Thursday headed in that direction despite himself.

 

When he got to the pair of benches under the big chestnut tree, he found that the cat had stopped and was waiting for him, watching his approach. The pure white fluff at chest and paws stood out brightly in the sunshine against the darker dapples on his sides, and large eyes blinked complacently in Thursday’s direction.

 

“Hello there,” Thursday said. “You out for a walk?”

 

When Morse didn’t make any move, Thursday took a seat on the nearest creaky wooden bench, avoiding the bird droppings.

 

“Sam’s playing with his friends – I stopped to watch for a bit. He’s not bad,” Thursday added. “Did you see them?”

 

The cat blinked at him. A few leisurely steps and a quick wiggle of his hindquarters later, he was perched beside Thursday on the bench. It was significantly cooler in the shade, and a breeze rustled the leaves on the tree above them.

 

“This is a bit out of your way, isn’t it?” Thursday asked after a moment. The park wasn’t particularly near Morse’s flat, the police station or Thursday’s house. He couldn’t think what reason Morse would have to come here, unless he was just roaming randomly around Oxford. Cats usually had set patches, didn’t they, that they stuck to? Thursday wondered what, exactly, Morse normally considered his territory. The Thursday house, certainly – they were well and truly claimed.

 

“The missus made chicken last night, she saved a bit for you.”

 

Morse didn’t acknowledge his words, looking out on the park. His ears twitched occasionally in response to birdsong, or the sound of a motorbike in the distance, but sluggishly. Half-alert at best, Thursday thought. He waited another minute, and Morse’s eyes drooped slowly closed. Thursday could have reached out and scruffed his head, stroked his back, but for some reason he felt it would be unwelcome.

 

He sat for another ten minutes appreciating the stillness of the park in Morse’s company, watching the distant stick figures kicking their ball around, then with a quiet word of goodbye he headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I think we just hit halfway :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's longer, because it felt too broken up as two chapters ;)

Sunday afternoon, and Morse’s whiskered face was begging Win for scraps in the kitchen. Less begging and more polite attentiveness, but it had the same effect, and she fed him choice bits of chicken meat and skin.

 

“You spoil him,” Thursday grumbled good-naturedly as he passed the doorway.  

 

There was no reply, but a minute later he heard, “Don’t you listen to him! You’re not spoiled are you? No.” Then, “How about some cheese?”

 

He settled into the armchair with the book Joan had got him for Christmas – a Sherlock Holmes anthology, and cracked it open where he’d left off.

 

Morse kept himself entertained for the afternoon, trailing Sam upstairs, patrolling the garden, keeping Win company as she prepared dinner. He wolfed down his portion of it, but as soon as dinner was done he waited by the back door until Joan opened it for him and then was out the door without so much as a by your leave.

 

Thursday settled in with his after dinner pipe, and couldn’t help but be conscious that Morse hadn’t so much as greeted him the whole day. Obviously he was in the dog house, despite the lad stopping for him yesterday in the park. Oughtn’t to have pushed him about the changing, maybe, but Morse never  _talked_. Even if it came at the price of a few day’s distance, Thursday couldn’t regret the moment’s openness in which Morse had mentioned his father.

 

\----------------------

 

Monday morning, however, found both Morse and Jakes in his office. Morse’s eyes were bright with excitement, that look he got when an idea had ran away with him.

 

Thursday heard them out. Their fleeing suspect had dropped something into the back of the car which had been gone when they’d managed to track the vehicle down. At first, Jakes had put forth the idea that the killer had come back for it, but Morse had pointed out that he would have just unlocked the car to get it, rather than going through the broken window.  Having by some miracle tracked down the man who’d shattered the window last week, they found their missing bag at his house - stolen in a moment of drunken tomfoolery. All well and good, and inside it were rolls of negatives, which had been mostly exposed.

 

Thursday picked up one of the rolls carefully between thumb and forefinger, and looked at the long roll of film spooling out from it. “Think you can get anything off these?”

 

“I’ll have an ask around,” Jakes said. “It looks like some of them might be good anyway.”

 

“What if this wasn’t an accomplice?” Morse said. “Or at least, not just an accomplice. What if he was being blackmailed by Bancroft, and found out where Bancroft was keeping his material?”

 

“Killed him and tried to destroy the evidence, then?” Thursday said slowly. “Alright, look into it. Maybe that’ll lead us to his identity.”

 

\--------------------

 

It wasn’t that easy, of course, but it got them the address of a block of flats. Going door to door the following morning had yielded no results, but then they had very little to go on other than Morse and Jakes’ estimate of height and build, and dark hair. They’d questioned two possibles, but dropping information on blackmail, murder and the retrieved negatives had provoked nothing but apparent bewilderment.

 

“Could be a visitor?” Jakes said. “Or someone hiding from us while their partner opened the door.”

 

“We need more to go on.” They stood on the pavement outside, and Thursday eyed the grey clad building again. “At the moment we wouldn’t know him even if we walked right into him. Right, we’ll set up surveillance as soon as we get back to watch comings and goings – Jakes, you can handle that. Morse, find me  _something_  we can use to shake this bastard loose.”

 

Thursday had resigned himself to a day of sorting out other people’s incompetence back at the office, so when the call came in the afternoon it was a complete surprise. One of the two constables attached to the case, Perkins, he thought, rushed into his office without knocking.

 

“Detective Sergeant Jakes on the radio,” he said breathlessly. “Said to get you immediately.”

 

It seemed wildly improbable that Jakes would have found their man so soon.

 

“Did he call for backup?” Thursday said, rising from his chair and pulling his coat from its hook by the door.

 

The constable paused, uncertain, and put clear effort into remembering. “He just said to get you, sir. Said that he’d seen someone interesting enter, but that they were a good deal shorter than the person you were looking for.”

 

Thursday’s mouth went dry. “That was the exact wording, was it, constable?”

 

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

 

He put his coat on, and grabbed his hat. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

 

Davis was on him before he made it three feet from his door. Thursday hadn’t even known the man was around today. He didn’t stop, but Davis turned and kept pace.

 

“A development in the case?” Davis asked interestedly.

 

“I’m not sure,” Thursday said. He could hardly lie outright after Perkins had obviously bolted to his office. “Just a lead I need to follow up.”

 

“I’ll accompany you, if you don’t mind.”

 

Thursday did mind.

 

“I’m not sure there’s anything to see,” he said. “You’d be wasting your time.”

 

They reached the outer door to the station, and Thursday hesitated next to it. Davis stopped next to him, and regarded him seriously.

 

“I have orders to observe the case fully.” The man didn’t bother saying that Thursday had his orders too, and after a moment Thursday nodded and they stepped outside.

 

It was a ten minute drive, and Thursday tried not to think too hard on Jakes’ words. They could have meant anything, after all – could have just meant that he’d seen someone else they knew in connection to the case.

 

Thursday parked the Jag round the corner, and then he and Davis went to join Jakes in the unmarked car on the same street as the building.

 

Jakes twisted to greet him as he got in, and after the standard good afternoons the DS’s eyes flicked from Thursday to Davis and back to Thursday again. Thursday gave a slight shrug.

 

“What have you got for me, then?”

 

“Sir. About half an hour ago someone matching Morse’s description entered the building. He got in as someone else opened the door,” Jakes added before Thursday could ask.

 

“Right.” Thursday sighed. He was incredibly aware of the presence behind him in the car, and was hardly about to say that Morse was there without orders. “I told Morse to go and have a look around, but I meant tomorrow, once we had more information. He clearly misunderstood me.”

 

Jakes nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

“I heard you went door to door yesterday, is he doing the same again today?” Davis’ voice came from the back.

 

Jakes snorted. “In a manner of speaking.”

 

And it wasn’t as though Davis hadn’t figured it out already, so Thursday curtly said, “I think Detective Sergeant Jakes means that Morse is currently in his other form, and performing surveillance.”

 

Jakes gave a short remorseful cough. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Is there much point to that?” Davis asked.

 

Thursday looked out of the window and restrained himself from snapping out an answer, because no, no bloody point that he could see. What the hell was Morse doing, going in like this? It was hardly as though he could get into people’s flats, even if they knew where to start. And a cat inside a block of flats was a darn sight more out of the ordinary than one in somebody’s garden. He’d probably get chucked out by the first resident that saw him – animals were almost certainly not allowed.

 

“He might be trying to catch the scent of him,” Jakes suggested after a minute.

 

Thursday covered his eyes with one hand, resting his elbow against the car door. Wasn’t that dogs? Actually, they’d never discussed Morse’s sense of smell – was it possible that he  _could_ identify their killer that way?

 

“Are you sure it was Morse?” he had to ask.

 

Jakes shrugged, and tapped the binoculars in his lap. Thursday sighed. It could have been another cat, of course, but sod’s law said it was Morse.

 

They waited half an hour, and then a pressing call of nature made itself known. He’d been called out rather unexpectedly, after all.

 

“I’m just going to nip out for a minute,” Thursday said, and made his way to the small shop on the corner. Flashing his badge to get access to the toilet in the back made him feel like a bit of an idiot, but it wasn’t like there were an abundance of available options. He got back to the car maybe five minutes after he’d left it, and found an anxious looking Jakes rolling down the window to speak with him.

 

A quick look in the back of the car revealed no Davis.

 

“He’s gone in,” Jakes said quickly. “Said to wait here.”

 

Thursday gave him a dark look. “Take orders from God-knows-who, now, do you?” The metal of the car was warm from the sun as he rested his hand on it and leaned down to the window. “Don’t trust him,” he said firmly, before Jakes could get a word in, and got a sullen nod in reply.

 

Straightening again, Thursday moved swiftly towards the front door of the block of flats. It was propped ajar with a brick at the moment and there was a small stack of cardboard boxes next to it – clearly someone packing or unpacking a car. It explained how Davis had gotten in – though he could have always just buzzed someone inside.

 

The immediate entranceway was dull and dingy, yellowing linoleum curling up at the edges. Thursday mounted the first flight of stairs with a feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

 

The first floor corridor was empty. Thursday hesitated a moment but could make nothing out. He looked up the gap in the middle of the stairwell and couldn’t see any movement, though he thought he heard voices. Where the hell was Davis?

 

The second floor was clear too, which left only the third. Definitely voices, coming from above him, one loud enough that it echoed down the stairwell now. Thursday quickened his pace up the steps, and as soon as he could see over the landing he made out figures in the corridor.  

 

“What’s going on here?”

 

He moved closer and his eyes took in the open door to a flat, a blonde woman standing blocking it with her arms crossed over her chest. Then the figure in the corridor turned around, and Thursday’s eyes fixed on the tight band of his arms containing a struggling, spitting Morse.

 

Thursday’s mouth fell open in shock.

 

“Morse?”

 

He’d never seen anyone – _anyone_ – else pick up Morse, not even Win whom he might have tolerated it from. The lean ginger body squirmed and writhed in an agony of hatred, and Davis’ face turned harder and more impassive. It looked as though he were squeezing the lad so tightly that Morse might be divided in two, and the sight was disturbing right down to the very marrow of Thursday’s bones.

 

“What are you-“ Thursday started forward, urgency driving his steps. He saw Morse’s back legs scrabble over the material of Davis’ jumper, his claws gouging. “Let him go!”

 

The woman gave both of them an ugly look, and slammed the door closed just as Thursday reached them. Simultaneously, Davis shifted and managed to get a grip on the back of Morse’s neck; his fingers dug into the loose skin at the scruff and pulled it back hard so that the skin of Morse’s head was pulled almost obscenely tight.

 

Morse went limp.

  

Thursday’s hands slammed into Davis’ shoulders without conscious volition, shoving the man hard against the wall next to the door. Morse was a solid weight between them, dangling like a ragdoll from Davis’ grip; Thursday almost fancied he could feel the lad’s fast, desperate heartbeat through the contact.

 

Davis made no move to fend Thursday off, but his grip on Morse remained tight. Thursday looked the man straight in the eye and imagined pushing so hard that the shoulders he was pinning would sink right into the wall.

 

“Let. Him. Go.”

 

There wasn’t a shred of fear in Davis’ eyes; that ate at Thursday’s gut, made him want to put it there.

 

“Now,” he added for good measure, and his fingers gripped like claws.

 

There was a small muffled thump as Morse dropped, landing awkwardly half-across Thursday’s shoes, and then the skittering noise of him taking off for the stairs like the hounds of hell were after him.

 

Thursday didn’t move for a moment, didn’t take his eyes off Davis. Then he leaned in closer, so that Davis had to rear his head back and away. That was good. Satisfying.

 

“Suppose you tell me what happened?” Thursday asked, voice flinty.

 

Davis’ eyes darted to the side, to the door of the flat, but Thursday didn’t give a damn about whether anyone overheard them.

 

“I got here just as they were throwing the cat out.”

 

“I see. Sounds like he could have left by himself then.”

 

“She was threatening to call animal control, so I said it was mine. Grabbed it.”

 

Thursday gave a small growl, and released his grip a little just so that he could slam the man back into the wall again. The sound of Morse being called ‘it’ was _wrong_.

 

“That was a mistake,” he said. “Don’t ever touch him again.”

 

He carefully removed his hands from Davis’ shoulders and the man righted himself as though nothing had happened. Some part of Thursday’s lizard-brain demanded more, but he kept himself to a curl of his lip and turning his back.

 

He walked stonily to the stairs, down them, out of the front door and over to the car without ever looking away from his next destination. A mugging could have taken place five feet to his right and he wouldn’t have seen a thing. He reached the car, opened the door, got in.

 

He sat with Jakes in silence for a moment, then cleared his throat.

 

“Morse?” he asked.

 

“Came out the door a minute before you, sir. Took off down the street.”

 

Thursday nodded. Jakes fidgeted.     

 

“We won’t be working with Inspector Davis anymore,” Thursday said. “At least, not voluntarily. And you’re to keep him as far away from Morse as possible.”

 

He could feel Jakes’ eyes on the side of his face but he stayed facing stonily forward. After another minute they set off back to the station. While neither Thursday nor Davis were obviously policemen, it was entirely possible they’d spooked anyone in the building or area that they might have been looking for.

 

Rage still burned in Thursday’s veins, making his temple throb and his lips press tight together. The emotions behind it were hard for him to identify – it was as though he’d found some bloke trying it on with Joan or Win, or holding a knife to one of the kid’s throats. He swallowed down his protective fury again and again over the afternoon, waiting for it to die down but feeling it only bank and rise higher.

 

Morse’s desk remained empty.

 

\----------------

 

It was just before five when Thursday gathered his things and left. The mountain of paperwork he’d largely ignored that afternoon still sat mockingly on his desk. Screw it.

 

Not home, no, Morse wouldn’t have gone to Thursday’s house. He might be up a tree somewhere, that was possible, but Thursday’s hands turned the wheel as sure as anything as he headed in the direction of Morse’s flat. Morse holed up when he was hurt or upset, and today would be no different.

 

He parked on the curb, ignoring the double yellow line, and held the door for someone coming out of the building; just as he had all those months ago when he’d first visited. His feet took him to the right door on autopilot, and he stared at the chipped façade for a minute before raising his knuckles to knock. After a minute, he knocked again, and then he stood and waited with unexpected patience.

 

He wondered, not for the first time, how Morse got in and out of the flat to visit them. Presumably he left as a man, hid his clothes and keys somewhere – probably in an alley – and changed. There was risk in that. Risk of being seen, of being robbed, of being arrested for public indecency. The idea of it – Morse changing in an alley – seemed grotty somehow. Unworthy.

 

At length, the door opened.

 

Morse looked terrible, there was no other word for it. Eyes bloodshot and hair peaked as though he’d run fingers through it a thousand times. His shirt was unbuttoned and askew, showing the vest underneath. There was alcohol on his breath.

 

He stared at Thursday as though he couldn’t possibly fathom why his DI was there, and Thursday’s ire stirred anew.

 

“Can I come in?” Thursday said grimly, and pushed past Morse without waiting for an answer.

 

The curtains were half drawn, leaving the flat lit by a few shafts of dying afternoon sunlight. The place was messy, but that wasn’t unusual – socks discarded on the floor, dirty glasses in the sink. Thursday’s gaze settled on the open bottle of liquor on the small table.

 

The door clicked shut somewhere behind him, and he heard Morse’s shuffling steps until the lad moved past him towards the kitchenette – fishing in the cupboards for an extra glass. He set it down beside the other on the table, and then started buttoning the rest of his shirt. Thursday watched the thin fingers fumble with each button, saw the reluctance as Morse got higher and left the top two undone. His shirtsleeves were left unbuttoned too.

 

“Drink?” Morse’s voice was raspy, as though he hadn’t spoken for a long time. Thursday silently took the proffered glass.

 

They drank in silence, Thursday standing there in his coat and hat watching Morse; Morse looking anywhere but. When the glass was empty Thursday placed it back on the table, setting it in the ring of an old watermark.

 

“Morse.”

 

Morse’s lips twitched, tightened, and his back straightened. Readying himself for a fight. “What was he doing there?”

 

“He tagged along with me. After I got a call from Jakes saying you’d arrived unplanned.” Thursday paused, bending to refill his glass. “I was gone for a moment and when I got back he’d gone in the building. I followed as quickly as I could.”

 

Morse nodded, still not looking at him.

 

“Mind if I sit down?” Thursday went ahead when there was no answer. He took off his hat and laid it on the table to the side of the bottle. “So that’s what we were doing there. What about you?”

 

The silence this time lasted longer.

 

Patience, Thursday told himself,  _patience_. You couldn’t rush Morse, not when he was like this; he’d just clam up and you wouldn’t get anywhere with him. Davis’ idiot move had already likely cost Thursday dearly, he didn’t want to make it any worse.

 

“I had a thought,” said Morse finally. He didn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate.

 

Words built up behind Thursday’s teeth, words of blame and  _how-could-you-be-so-stupid_  and  _why-didn’t-you-tell-me_? He bit them back, hard, and downed his drink. 

 

Then, “You didn’t send him after me?” Quick, nettled – as though Morse were looking for someone to take this out on and Thursday was in prime position.

 

“No,” Thursday said. “He was along on sufferance, but we were waiting for you to report. He didn’t have my permission to go anywhere near the building.” Let alone anywhere near Morse.

 

“He said-“ Morse started, and then cut himself off. Thursday’s hand tightened around the empty glass, and he forced himself to set it down.

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Uh.” Here Morse’s gaze flicked to him for the first time in the conversation. “That his friend had let me out by accident, so he’d been told to come and retrieve me. That I’d have to be taught betterin future. That…”

 

Thursday’s other hand curled into a loose fist in his lap, and he remembered the moment he’d pushed Davis into the wall. Should have punched him, he thought darkly.

 

“I should have punched him,” he said out loud, because the last thing he needed was Morse thinking he wasn’t on his side.

 

Morse acted as though he hadn’t heard, rolling his glass between the palms of his hands. “There’s someone living there,” he said. “He came out to help her take the boxes in. Matches the description. That flat – the woman said she lived alone when we went the day before. And I heard them saying a few things…”

 

Thursday waited a moment. “Nothing definite?” Morse shook his head. “Alright, we’ll follow it up in the morning.”

 

“He-“ Morse cut out again. This time his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, then round to the front to tug at his open collar.

 

Thursday judged the time was right. “He had no right,” he said carefully. Morse’s fingers stilled, and then tugged at the material of his shirt again. “Whatever his excuse, he could have found another way.”

 

“He said it was my fault. That I was badly behaved.”

 

Thursday forced himself to take a breath. “Morse,” he said, and waited until Morse’s head swung to look his way. “Whatever he said, it was just to get her to let you go. If he meant anything more by it, well, we both know he’s a complete arsehole. Trying to manipulate you.”

 

Morse’s eyes shone in the dim light. “Why did he do it?” Just for a second there was a deep well of vulnerability in his voice.

 

“I don’t know, lad.” Thursday sighed. “It’s hardly in keeping with them wanting to make nice with you. Maybe a show of power.”

 

“I’m not an animal,” Morse said, voice sharp. His other hand came up and buried itself in his short hair, tugging at it.

 

“I know that,” Thursday said evenly.

 

“Do you?” Morse huffed a laugh; tried a smile which curved the corners of the mouth but none of the rest of it. His freckles shone out in stark relief, showing how pale he’d gone. “I wonder sometimes.”

 

“Morse, I know that. I promise you.”

 

“But-“ Morse hesitated. The fingers at his collar were almost yanking now, trying to spread the material wider. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “But you…”

 

It was a delicate subject. And they were about to breach it at possibly the worst time, with Morse about as far away from calm and settled as it was possible to be.

 

“That professor – Tumlinson – once told me that body language should tell me everything I needed to know.” Thursday paused a moment to let that sink in. “If I, or any of the rest of the family, ever do anything you’re not happy with, we trust you to let us know, Morse.”

 

It wasn’t as though Morse hadn’t made things clear in the past when he needed to. Thursday thought they had a pretty good understanding. Of course, said understanding was between him and Morse when he was a cat, not Morse when he was a human.

 

Morse closed his eyes tightly shut, and appeared to be struggling with what he wanted to say.

 

“If you don’t want to visit us anymore,” Thursday started carefully.

 

“No!” Morse burst out. He scrubbed his face with both hands, and then pulled again at the collar of his shirt. A button flashed in the light and then went spinning onto the floor.

 

They both paused.  

 

“I know you’re not feeling well,” Thursday said after a moment. “And I know you weren’t looking for visitors tonight. I just needed to know if you were…”

 

“I don’t…” Morse licked his lips, rubbed his face again. If anything, he looked worse than when Thursday had come in, but Thursday didn’t regret the visit – especially if Morse had been thinking that it had been him who sent Davis in that afternoon.

 

Thursday stood. “You have a rest tonight, take it easy.” _Don’t drink too much_. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Morse rose as well, looking wretched. “No,” he said, and Thursday wasn’t sure what he meant for a moment. No, the lad wouldn’t be in tomorrow? “Wait,” Morse mumbled, and then bolted for the bathroom.

 

The first thought that sprung to mind was that he’d gone to throw up – too much too quickly, perhaps, or the events of the day. But through the slightly ajar door no light shone, and there were no sounds of retching, just a slight rustling.

 

Worry crept over Thursday; he half-wondered if the boy was having a breakdown. He took an uncertain step towards the bathroom. Stopped. Looked around. Took off his coat, and took another two steps. “Morse?” he called.

 

No answer.

 

“Morse?”

 

A few seconds later a delicate triangular face poked around the bottom of the door and let out a quiet meow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through writing this fic I have learned that there are several small, fluffy Morses and Endeavours out in the world, keeping their owners company with cuddles and purring. The world is a better place.

“Jesus, Morse, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

 

Thursday stared down at Morse’s small head, which was still the only part of him visible. Slate-coloured eyes watched him warily, and then gradually the rest of Morse edged through the gap.

 

“Morse?”

 

The slight ginger body stayed close to the wall, pressed back against it as though afraid. Thursday was unpleasantly reminded of when he’d first retrieved Morse from the flat – of his fear and distrust. He sank to a crouch, as he had then, and dropped his voice a register.

 

“Shall I leave you to it, then?” he murmured. Upon no clear sign from Morse he added, “Want me to go?”

 

It hadn’t been a choice, Thursday couldn’t help but think. This change – it had been like the lad was going out of his skin as he’d been sitting there talking. As though it had reached a point where Morse just couldn’t handle it anymore. Until he’d fled to the bathroom and emerged as a cat.

 

Thursday wondered if he should call DeBryn. Or Professor Tumlinson. Hard on the heels of that thought came another, insidious and chilling;  _Morse wasn’t stuck again, was he?_

 

“Morse?” he said again, softly, and now the body detached itself from the wall and took a few shaky steps in his direction, seeming to almost sway a little. Thursday was about to make a joking comment about walking as though he were drunk when his mind flashed to the bottle on the table and  _Christ_ , Morse actually was. Drunk. As a cat. Jesus wept.

 

He kept his voice low and soothing as he spoke again, not really knowing what state Morse was in. “Alright, Morse? Having a bit of a bad day, aren’t you?”

 

The wavering footsteps halted a foot away, and Morse raised his head to peer cautiously at Thursday. The head tilted; Morse blinked, and then gave a little chuffing sneeze.

 

“That’s alright,” Thursday said. “We all have bad days. Davis won’t be doing that again, so you don’t need to worry. Maybe have a nap, hmm?”

 

His knees aching, Thursday stood again. He genuinely wasn’t sure if Morse wanted him to stay or go – he’d have assumed the latter, but for Morse’s quick plea for him to wait. Still, on the back of Morse’s comment that Thursday perhaps thought of him too much as an animal, it was hard to know what the lad wanted.

 

“Let’s get you some water,” he decided. That might help with the alcohol at least.

 

Morse followed him towards the sink. His stride was still smooth – it wasn’t as though he were stumbling or anything – but there was still something about the way he moved that showed the alcohol was having an effect. While Thursday filled a small bowl of water, Morse sat down and lowered his head.

 

“I’d say some choice words about drinking…” Thursday said wryly, but left it there. “Here you are then.”

 

He put the shallow bowl down, and after a quick sniff Morse lapped at it miserably.

 

“Not a good day at all,” Thursday murmured.

 

After another moment’s indecision he sighed, and went to the phone to call Win.

 

“I’ll be home late,” he said after saying hello. “I’m going for a drink with Morse – he’s had a rough day.”

 

“Alright, love,” she said cheerfully. “Take care of him, now.”

 

“I will.” His throat felt tight around the words.

 

When he turned around, Morse had apparently finished with the water and was considering him.

 

“What am I going to do with you, then?” Thursday said to himself. “I’d get you to eat something, but you’ll probably just chuck it back up.”

 

Things he’d never previously considered researching – feline reactions to alcohol.

 

“Jesus,” he said, and went to sit on the armchair in the corner this time. Morse stayed where he was for a moment and then followed him once more, drawing to a stop about a foot away.

 

“I don’t know what you want,” Thursday told him after a minute. “Or why you’re even-“ He flapped a hand to indicate Morse’s current choice of form.

 

Morse regarded him silently.

 

“Well, fat lot of help you are,” Thursday said, taking it back a second later. “Sorry.”

 

Morse took a couple of steps, moving a few inches closer. Now it was Thursday’s turn to consider Morse. Any other day, and he’d be assuming Morse wanted up into his lap. But now he had to very seriously think through the idea that his human bagman wasn’t comfortable with this, despite the fact that he seemed to want the affection when he was a cat. A bit like dealing with someone with two personalities, except that Thursday was fairly sure it was actually the  _same_  personality - but the cat was a fair amount less inhibited than the man.

 

“What am I going to do with you?” he said again, and he and Morse stared at each other for a minute. Eventually he leaned forwards, reaching out and pausing with his hands outstretched in front of Morse, and said, “Come on then.”

 

He’d expected some procrastination on the issue, but Morse took two short steps forward so that Thursday could easily scoop him up. Thursday made sure to keep his grip gentle, but there was really only so much one could do when bodily lifting someone under the armpits.

 

He set Morse on his lap and carefully released him, waiting to see what he’d do.

 

Morse hovered in a half crouch, not settling but showing no inclination to get down either. Thursday had no idea if he was feeling unwell because of the alcohol of if this behaviour was due to other things.

 

Well then. It looked like he’d be continuing the conversation, just somewhat more one-sided.

 

“It’s not like I forget who you are when you’re like this, lad,” he said. Morse’s head swivelled to regard him intently. “I know that you’re still you. And I can understand why you would think it was strange as a human, but you obviously don’t right now – and you’re still you now while you’re deciding that.” He stopped, having slightly lost track of his train of thought. “What I mean is,” he said more slowly, “you’re obviously alright with this, now.”

 

He held out a careful hand and guided his thumb along the ridge of Morse’s cheek. Morse leant into the touch, though his eyes remained open and alert.

 

“And I don’t want to lose this,” Thursday said more quietly. “But if you’re unhappy with it when you’re a human, if you don’t want us to-“

 

Morse shifted a little, and rubbed the side of his head against Thursday’s hand. Thursday sighed.

 

“I know,” he said. “But there’s what you’re saying now and then there’s what you were saying ten minutes ago. It’s – well, it would be awfully hard to ignore you when you’re like this, Morse-“ and he remembered one time his family had tried, how persistent and playful Morse had become to try and engage them again “-but if it’s not something that you want, then…”

 

He stopped and considered what he was saying. Was he suggesting that Morse continue to visit, but that he and Win and the kids completely shut him out even when he wanted affection? Or was he suggesting Morse stop visiting at all?

 

“Or is it just that you want reassurance that we do know you’re not just a cat, even though Joan made you a toy mouse and Sam boasts about you to his friends?”  _And Win feeds you scraps and I…_  “Because… well, I don’t know - maybe you’re right and the lines do get a bit blurred sometimes. But Morse, we can do all that and still know who you are. And I thought-“ Thursday shrugged a bit helplessly “-well, call me a daft old fool, but – I thought you  _liked_  it.”

 

Morse pulled back from where he’d been nudging at Thursday’s fingers, and sat on his haunches, appearing deep in thought. Thursday was at a bit of a loss as to what to say next.

 

Some minutes passed, and Thursday carefully shifted to make himself more comfortable, wary of disturbing Morse’s weight on his lap. It seemed to prompt a reaction from him, however, as he abruptly sunk down into a more fully seated position, and looked across the room with great fascination as though he and Thursday had never been having a discussion at all.

 

“We all like having you with us,” Thursday said after a minute. “And we’d miss you if you didn’t want to come anymore. So I suppose… you just need to let us know what’s right for you.”

 

A difficult prospect, when Thursday suspected Morse was bad at understanding or prioritising his own needs about anything, let alone this.

 

“Alright. I’ll be quiet now. You sit and have your think.”

 

Thursday didn’t stroke him or fuss over him further, just sat quietly as it fell dark outside. Beyond shifting a couple of times, Morse stayed in the same position; he neither acknowledged Thursday nor relaxed further.

 

It was difficult, staying still for that long. Not that Thursday didn’t appreciate a chance to rest his bones without interruption, but the rather tense cat on his lap didn’t make for relaxation and normally he’d have some form of entertainment on hand. At perhaps half past seven something seemed to give, and with no visible change Morse released all of his muscles. His head dropped a few seconds later.

 

The next time Thursday looked at the clock it was well past nine, and he was blinking sleep out of his eyes.

 

“Dozed off,” he mumbled, and his hand came down to rest on top of Morse’s head automatically. Morse’s head lifted slightly under it, his eyes blinking and tongue unfurling in a long yawn. “Morse?”

 

Morse didn’t deign to look at him, sitting with the contented look of a cat that was sure it could get away with snoozing for a few more minutes if it just ignored the world. His eyelids had drooped almost shut again, and he gave a discontented look as Thursday nudged him.

 

“Come on, Morse, up you get. I need to be off home.”

 

Morse yawned again.

 

“Or I’ll be forced to take you with me,” Thursday threatened, and finally Morse pushed upwards on his front paws and ducked his head to wash his chest.

 

Deciding being proactive was the way to go, Thursday shifted forwards in preparation to stand. Morse rode through the motion, then gave a small chirp and hopped down from Thursday’s knees.

 

Thursday was still stretching out the kinks in his back when Morse disappeared into the bathroom, and was just sliding on his coat when the more dishevelled, red haired version pushed the door open wide to come out.

 

Morse was obviously also still recovering from his nap, scrubbing a quick hand through his hair and belatedly half-covering his mouth as he yawned. Thursday had seen Morse right after he’d been a cat before – a few times now on cases and of course that first time he’d come downstairs to find the lad wrapped in a blanket in his living room – but this time still had a strange feel to it. Neither of them had ever been confronted quite so obviously with the fact that Morse had been on Thursday’s lap five minutes before, but was now a grown man with whom such a scenario would never occur.

 

Thursday cleared his throat and reached for his hat. “See you tomorrow, Morse.”

 

“Mmm,” Morse said. Then, just as Thursday reached the door, “Yes, sir.”

 

\------------------

 

Davis didn’t show his face at the station the next day, which was a very good thing for all concerned, in Thursday’s opinion. Jakes and one of the constables went round to check the flat that Morse had been in.

 

Privately, in his office, Thursday gave Morse a proper bollocking for going in the day before behind his back and without backup. As usual the lad didn’t look particularly remorseful – a glint in his eye of ‘ _but I found something, didn’t I?_ ’

 

Sometimes Thursday wanted to give him a good shake.

 

“Talk to Jakes when he gets back. What else are you on?”

 

“Car thefts.”

 

“Right.” Thursday gave a curt nod. “Get on that then.” 

 

\-------------------

 

Later that afternoon they had two suspects in for questioning, because the blonde woman – Ashley Forbes – had acted incredibly suspiciously when the collection of photo negatives was mentioned. It was enough to take her in, as well as the man hiding in her bedroom. Turned out he was being blackmailed with pictures of her in extremely compromising positions – he was her brother and trying to look out for her. She didn’t know anything about any of the rest of it though.

 

From there it was a slow tumbling revelation of facts. The brother had an unrecorded history of violent crime, one which Bancroft, their blackmailer, had found out about. Bancroft had then used Forbes to do his dirty work. Yes, there had been someone else involved, but Bancroft had ordered him killed a week ago – their last body in the river. If anything, Gary Forbes seemed relieved to finally be able to admit everything to someone. He was insistent that his sister was innocent of all wrong doing, though, and Thursday could see that Morse believed him.

 

Always slightly too easy to convince that a pretty face was innocent, was Morse. Still, in this case Thursday possibly agreed with him.

 

The change-work portion of the case was signed off on, reports submitted, and the rest was all ordinary policing. Done and dusted, Thursday thought, and secretly prayed that they’d have a longer break before the next one.

 

\--------------------

 

He didn’t know Dr Barnes had come in to see Morse again until he saw the man leaving one of the interview rooms the following day. The door had been left ajar in his wake, and Thursday drifted over to it to see Morse sitting alone at the metal table, chin cradled pensively in his hand. Had Barnes tried to recruit Morse again?

 

He lingered in the doorway for a minute, but Morse didn’t seem to notice his presence.

 

“Morse.”

 

“Sir.”

 

Morse stood, wiping his palms on his trousers.

 

“What was all that about, then?”

 

“Oh?” Morse seemed to realise Thursday had seen their visitor. “Nothing.”

 

Thursday stayed silent and Morse left the room, brushing past him. A couple of feet past Thursday he came to a halt, and cast quickly over his shoulder. “Pub tonight?”

 

Thursday’s eyebrow rose. “Alright,” he said, a questioning tone in his voice.

 

Morse gave a crooked, not-quite-there smile and turned away.

 

Back at his desk, Thursday thought it over. Clearly Morse and Barnes had talked, but Morse hadn’t seemed upset by it - so there couldn’t have been any threats or attempts to force Morse to work for them or ‘cooperate’ further.

 

He tried to put it out of his mind and got back to work.

 

Later that night, at a pub near the nick, Morse finished his first half of ale in silence before he started to talk.

 

“It was an apology, I think,” he said with a slight frown. “Though he didn’t apologise as such. Talked around it enough, but obviously he found out…”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“We danced round it a bit, but eventually he admitted that he is one – a shifter.”

 

“Oh? What kind?”

 

Morse looked surprised. “I didn’t ask,” he said, as though there were some clear rules on etiquette in this situation that Thursday wasn’t aware of.

 

Thursday lifted one hand in an apologetic gesture.

 

“Anyway. He did understand. About that. And about why I wouldn’t work with anyone else.”

 

“I had to try and explain about that to Mr Bright a while back. That was a delightful conversation.” Thursday’s voice was dry, and Morse’s mouth quirked in response.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Thursday sat back in his chair and thought back. “That you found it difficult to take orders anyway. That as a cat it was much worse. That you didn’t have a connection to many people at the station.”

 

Morse weighed Thursday’s words. “The way I do with you?”

 

There was no easy answer to that, so Thursday let it lie.

 

After a moment Morse cleared his throat and looked off to the side. “Professor Barnes was saying that sometimes in our other forms things are much… much clearer. Who can be… trusted. That even though a lot of it is based in our interactions with people that we know, umm, _normally_ , as a cat it’s just simplified somehow. Complex relationships are distilled down to, uh, I like this person, or I don’t. I trust this person, or I don’t.” Morse was still avoiding looking at him. “I, uh, want this, or I don’t.”

 

And oh, they were switching subjects now. “Fair enough, it makes sense that while you’re that way you have those opinions.” Thursday felt his way through the conversation. “But do they match how you feel when you change back again?”

 

Morse was silent for several minutes, long enough that Thursday thought about signalling for another round. He didn’t want to give Morse any distraction from answering though.

 

“I don’t really-“ Morse started, and then paused. His fingers gripped the crook of his elbow where he’d crossed his arms, and for a moment Thursday thought he would change the subject. “I don’t really know.” And then, looking directly at Thursday for the first time since they’d started, “You don’t think it’s a bit… odd?”

 

Thursday snorted. “Odd doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He hesitated. “I had plenty of time to get used to the idea, the first time around. To make peace with it, as it were.”

 

Morse didn’t say anything, and Thursday eyed him for a moment.

 

“It doesn’t really matter if it’s odd, Morse. It’s no one’s business. I don’t know enough about it to know what’s normal or isn’t, but that Professor Tumlinson at the university certainly didn’t think it was unusual.”

 

Morse shrugged.

 

“How much do you know about this shape changing lark, anyway?” Thursday raised his hand until he had the attention of the man behind the bar, and then pointed down at their empty glasses. It was a slow night, so he’d not mind bringing them over.

 

Morse shrugged again. “Not that much,” he admitted, and that in itself was more than telling. Morse knew about all sorts of things – not just what he’d studied at university but the strangest unconnected topics. Put him anywhere near a book and he seemed to acquire the knowledge from it by a magical process of diffusion.

 

For Morse not to have found out everything he could about this, not to have read every book in a hundred miles…

 

“Maybe it’s time to have a look into it? Now that it’s a work thing too?”

 

Morse unfolded his arms and picked up a spare beer coaster, playing with it. He gave brief thanks as their round arrived, and then cradled the fresh pint between his hands instead.

 

“You think I’ll find out that it’s perfectly natural to behave like this; that I’m not a freak,” Morse said abruptly. Thursday drew in a quick breath.

 

“I don’t know what you’ll find out, but I suspect it’ll be that there’s no shame in being who you are.” His tone perhaps a little more forceful than it needed to be, but damned if he knew how else to get Morse to listen.

 

He waited a moment, then, “You said before that you thought I treated you like an animal?” Morse turned away, discomfort written in every line of his body. Thursday persisted. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we need to, Morse. I need to know, and my family needs to know.”

 

The lad still made no motion to respond.

 

Thursday softened his voice. “What do you want, Morse? We none of us are judging you, and no one else knows. So just between you and me, what do you want to do? You know we like having you there, that,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “I like having you there. But I want to do right by you, and having you silent and resentful at work isn’t leading me to think this is doing either of us any good.”

 

He felt like he might have run on a bit too much and took a long drink to shut himself up.

 

Morse was quiet for a while, but Thursday could see the thoughts flickering behind his eyes. Saw them almost given voice to, time and time again – the slight parting of lips, the indrawn breath, the clamping down again.

 

What _was_ it that ate at the lad so badly, he wondered.

 

“I like visiting your house,” Morse finally said, and Thursday nodded. It was a start. “And spending time with you all.” His eyes darted to Thursday, conveying the layers of meaning without the lad having to say it. Thursday nodded again. “I, uh, suppose I’m…” Stopped. Started again. “If I’m… myself… with you like that, then it must affect your opinion of me. And I, uh, I like the way things are at work. I don’t want…” He trailed off again, obviously tied up in knots over how to phrase whatever it was.

 

And Thursday knew what he was trying to say. It took everything Thursday had not to joke, ‘ _Are you worried that I won’t respect you in the morning?_ ’ It would just have riled Morse up further. But still.

 

“You’re worried that you can’t be close to us at home without it changing my opinion of you and the respect I have for your work,” he summed up. Morse’s head jerked a little, almost in surprise, and then he gave a grateful nod.

 

The easiest thing to do would be to lie, to reassure the lad that the two things could remain entirely separate.

 

“I can’t say,” he started carefully, “that having you in our personal lives has had no effect on our relationship. I’ve always liked you well enough, but I…” He hesitated, and settled on, “I _know_  you better now. I can’t just switch that on and off. But, Morse.” Here he leaned forward. “It’ll never affect the respect that I have for your abilities. If anything I give you  _more_  leeway in the station now. Maybe I shouldn’t,” he murmured to himself. Then, “Mostly that’s just understanding the way that you work and how to get the best out of you. That happens with people once you’re familiar with them.”

 

He didn’t say the other things humming through his brain; that knowing Morse as a cat had made him want to invite Morse as a human round to join the family for dinner once or twice a week. That sometimes when he turned and saw Morse’s freckled face and fluffed red hair he wanted to reach out and smooth it down. It  _was_  odd, having your cat be your bagman too. Or vice versa. He couldn’t tell the lad any of that though, considering Morse was already wobbling on the matter.

 

“The same’s true the other way round, you know? You know a lot of things about my family, about how I am at home – none of that is normally stuff I’d share with people at work. How’m I ever suppose to expect you to respect me after you’ve seen me get bossed around by everyone else in the house. After you’ve seen how much of a bear I am first thing in the morning?”

 

He never thought Morse would use any of it against him though, just as there was no way he would tease Morse, _this_ Morse, about the way he purred when one of them stroked him as a cat; about the way he would stretch out across the whole sofa whenever it was empty and have to be forcibly evicted when someone wanted to sit down. Why couldn’t Morse understand that?

 

“Everything’s been alright so far, though? We’ve not done anything…?”

 

Morse gave a little frown of concentration in response. He’d been a little more distant overall since they’d fixed his problem a couple of months before, but not very – still ready to hop onto Thursday’s lap at the end of an evening if he was visiting, still happy to play with the toys Sam and Joan provided. But Thursday knew he’d been struggling with it since then; the lad was a bit of an open book most of the time.

 

The reasoning behind his actions, however, was occasionally still a mystery to Thursday.

 

“My father said I was disgusting.” Morse didn’t look up from his pint, so he didn’t see the dark cloud that swept over Thursday’s expression. “Unnatural.”

 

“You’ll have to forgive me, but your father sounds like he was a right prick.”

 

That made Morse look up in surprise, as though he’d half expected Thursday to agree with the bastard.

 

“Clearly he didn’t know what he was talking about,” Thursday added, in case clarification was needed.

 

Morse considered this. “He never mentioned it after that day. There was the occasional oblique comment, but… sometimes I wondered if he had forgotten. But after that he was always… When I was younger I think he was less  _cold_.” Morse took a gulp of his pint, as if to wash away the words.

 

“Morse…”

 

“I don’t understand why you want me there,” Morse said suddenly. A second later, “What do you get out of it?”

 

And that hit Thursday right in the solar plexus. “Get out of it?” he repeated, bewildered. As though a friendship with Morse was a trade in which Morse had to be of value to keep around? “Nothing but the pleasure of your company,” he added a moment later, once he’d recovered. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we all liked having you there, Morse. It’s… nice.”

 

“Because you want a pet,” Morse said darkly.

 

Thursday’s voice was sharp in response. “If we wanted a pet we’d go out and buy a bloody pet. Not like we didn’t used to have a rabbit when the kids were… well, kids. If we wanted a cat we’d get a cat.” He sighed heavily, and looked at Morse. “I don’t know how to explain it, Morse.”

 

And they finished their drinks in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like blaming things on Morse's family. All the things. Poor Morse.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re angry with him,” Win said softly, and reached out to take Thursday's hand.

After that, they didn’t see Morse’s feline form in the next month. Maybe it sparked a bit of anger in Thursday, that the lad had seemingly made his decision without bothering to tell him, so that he had to helplessly watch Win and Joan’s glances out the window without being able to give them an answer. Maybe it was anger on his own behalf too – a connection that had suddenly been severed and left him feeling strangely lonely. There was no outlet for it, though, both because he couldn’t let it affect his work but also because Morse had been looking increasingly wan and drained. Served him right, Thursday had thought after a couple of weeks; the lad probably wasn’t eating properly without Win feeding him. The thought had been unworthy, and he’d gruffly told Morse to go home and get over whatever he was sickening for.

 

Morse had turned him down flat, of course. He was fine.

 

But that had been all that Thursday thought it was – a wobble in Morse’s immune system; just needed some more sleep and to take care of himself better. But then it went on. They’d not had any big cases since the Bancroft one, so sometimes Thursday only saw Morse for the drive to and fro work, and for the five minutes Morse would lean around the door to update him on any developments during the day. Morse didn’t seem to be avoiding him, as such, and Thursday didn’t want to seek him out if the lad needed space.

 

Morse grew quieter, more to himself. The wave of interest which had been generated when he’d turned out to be a shifter gradually died down now that he wasn’t on an active shapechanging case, and Thursday saw people go back to ignoring him again - jostling him as they passed without doing a double take, no longer making the effort to say good morning. Jakes was the exception. Jakes always had a polite word for him, as long as Morse wasn’t showing him up about something, and persisted in trying to make conversation long after puzzlement had switched to shutting down.

 

It wasn’t just rudeness though, wasn’t just withdrawing; the knowledge that Morse was desperately unhappy itched under Thursday’s skin, but he didn’t know what he could do about it.

 

He invited DeBryn for dinner.

 

\---------------------

 

“That was truly delicious, Mrs Thursday, I’ve not had such a well cooked meal in a long time.”

 

“Oh,” Win said - and she was quietly fretting, Thursday could tell. “It wasn’t anything special. And the potatoes were overcooked, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It was very nice, love,” Thursday interrupted, and reached out to squeeze her hand. “You can do marvels on short notice.”

 

He was in the doghouse for that – he should have thought it through beforehand; invited DeBryn for Saturday instead. Her look said she certainly hadn’t forgotten his part in giving her so little time to prepare. He cleared his throat.

 

“Well then. Brandy?

 

Sam had no interest in staying – heading out immediately, but Joan made small talk with them in the living room for a bit before she clearly realised that her dad wanted to talk without her around.

 

“Tea?” Win asked, and headed to the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

 

DeBryn glanced at his watch.

 

Thursday said, “It’s about Morse.”

 

That caught the pathologist’s attention. He peered interestedly at Thursday through his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Morse? He’s not here tonight, is he?” And DeBryn glanced around, as though waiting for a small orange form to appear.

 

“No,” Thursday said grimly. “He’s not been here for over a month. And there’s something wrong with him.”

 

DeBryn made a slight gesture which encouraged elaboration.

 

“It’s-“

 

Win came back in with the tea and there was a pause while it was served. Once they were all settled she looked at him inquisitively and he coughed. He’d not really mentioned any of this to her before.

 

“I’d have thought he was ill,” Thursday said slowly. “But I don’t think that’s it. He’s lost weight though, and I’m not sure he’s sleeping.” He paused, feeling as though he was breaking Morse’s confidence by speaking about him behind his back. “And he barely talks at all anymore – not even to me. There’s just… something wrong.”

 

“I see. Have you tried talking to him about it?”

 

Thursday shook his head. “No. It’s…” He grimaced unhappily. “The last time we talked he was… unhappy at the thought of us seeing him as an animal. Wanted to be more man than cat. I wasn’t sure how we left it, but he’s not visited since and I think…” Thursday paused, and now his real concern bubbled out of him. “I think he’s not changed at all, since. And maybe that was normal for him, before, but it isn’t anymore.”

 

DeBryn leaned back in his seat and fished his pipe out of his pocket. “May I?” he asked Win, and she nodded. “So you think that repressing the change is doing him harm in some way?”

 

Thursday nodded.

 

“Oh Fred, you never said,” Win murmured. “The poor lad.”

 

DeBryn appeared to consider this as he carefully packed his pipe with tobacco. Thursday’s fingers strayed to his own pipe, running the line of it.

 

“I don’t know,” DeBryn said finally. “I’ve done some reading on the matter since the start of this whole affair, but resources are… limited. You say he used to go this long without changing before he became… stuck?”

 

“It’s the impression I got. Longer even.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, Win’s hands twisting in her lap. After a minute Thursday reached out to still them by covering them with one of his own.

 

Finally DeBryn said, “I don’t know. I don’t know if not changing would bring about the symptoms you describe now, and I certainly don’t know how Morse has been affected by the period of being unable to shift back to a human. I think you said he was behaving differently, afterwards?”

 

Thursday gave a stiff nod – he’d mentioned it at an autopsy, once.

 

DeBryn sighed. “There’s very little I can tell you. My only recommendation would be to talk to him.” The pathologist thought for a moment. “Or I can.”

 

\------------------

 

Morse plunged into Thursday’s office a few days later, his usually sallow cheeks flushed and a look which didn’t bode well in his eye.

 

“Shut the door,” Thursday said, pretending he’d not looked up from his paperwork, and took a moment to finish reading the report before signing it and putting it aside. “Morse,” he said peaceably. “What can I do for you?”

 

“You-“ Morse struggled. “I-“

 

One hand was knotted in a tight fist by his side, and every muscle in the lad’s body seemed to be tense and angry. On the plus side, at least there was a bit of life in him for once.

 

Thursday kept his expression calm and unbothered, and waited.

 

Finally Morse turned and pushed the door shut, not slamming it despite the initial jerk.

 

Thursday waited a minute longer, but Morse just stayed in that position, half turned away and body taut like strung wire. For all that Morse had been the one to push his way in here, he obviously didn’t know how to start.

 

Thursday had a good inkling of what this was about, of course, but he didn’t want to incriminate himself if it wasn’t.

 

“I just saw Dr DeBryn,” Morse said finally.

 

“Oh yes,” said Thursday. “That accidental? What was the verdict?”

 

He saw Morse fight with himself for a moment. “Confirmed as a heart attack. But that’s not the point.”

 

“No?” Thursday asked mildly. “What’s the point then?”

 

Morse swung to face him, a red flush staining pale cheeks. “You said something to him!”

 

“Yes.”

 

The simplicity of his answer seemed to take the wind out of Morse’s sails, and the lad stared at him for a moment, lips parted.

 

“You’ve been looking ill, Morse. For quite a while now.” He paused to let the words sink in. “When I saw DeBryn I asked if he knew what was causing it. That’s all.”

 

It wasn’t quite all, of course, but it would have to do.

 

Morse wasn’t placated. “He said… he implied…”

 

Thursday got up from his chair, suddenly feeling this wasn’t a conversation he should sit for. He went round the desk and stood five feet away from Morse. The lad was almost shaking. With what – anger, fear?

 

“He said that there might be physiological effects of suddenly changing my habits – that it would put a strain on my system.”

 

“I’ve wondered that myself,” Thursday said carefully. “I mentioned that you’d not visited for a while. Been touring the parks again, have you?”

 

That would be his preferred alternative – for the lad to at least be getting  _some_  time as a –

 

Morse shook his head wretchedly.  

 

“Why not?” Thursday asked quietly.

 

“I don’t want to-“ Morse started, and then almost gulped back the words.

 

“No shame in doing what you need, lad.”

 

Morse shook his head again, accompanied by a cut off laugh. “Davis said-“

 

“I’ve had enough of what Davis said,” Thursday snapped, and then curbed himself. Sighed. “What did he say? When was this?”

 

Morse eyed him with slight wariness, hesitating. “Something he said in the office once. It made sense,” he said, as though in pre-emptive defence. Then, “That I should be able to have full control, in my other form. Of my actions. My emotions. That it was something I needed to work on.”

 

That was the most words put together the lad had said about anything other than work in longer than Thursday could remember. He tried to follow Morse’s train of thought. “How has this helped, then?”

 

Morse gave a slightly awkward shrug. “I thought if I went without for a while, it might help me have more…”

 

Ah, and now Thursday could see it. Morse thought spending those couple of months stuck as a cat had somehow lowered his inhibitions, given that part of himself power, so staying as a human would, what? Repress it again?

 

“That doesn’t sound like what Dr Barnes was saying,” was all he said. Morse said nothing. Thursday thought for another moment. “But it agreed with what you were already thinking, so you decided it must be right? That’s a circular line of thinking, Morse, and you know it. You’re better than that.”

 

Morse’s mouth quirked into an unhappy line.

 

“What’s this really about?” Thursday asked.

 

Morse blinked, taken aback.

 

“Because it seems to me that letting yourself be yourself, even as a cat, isn’t a problem for anyone but you.”

 

“It’s a problem if I can’t do my job.”

 

“Well who said that? Sometimes things go wrong, Morse, cat  _or_ human. And you as a cat still gets us further in some cases than we’d ever get without you.

 

Morse half-turned his face away, and wouldn’t look at Thursday as he spoke. “I still let you down.”

 

“Let me down? Something else Davis said, is it?”

 

Morse’s gaze stayed stubbornly to the side.

 

“Well,” Thursday said. “You know my opinion of anything that came out of his mouth – cold, manipulative bastard. I don’t know what’s eating you, Morse, but as far as I’m concerned there isn’t a problem.”

 

Morse gave another hollow laugh. “No, there wouldn’t be, would there?”

 

Thursday’s frustration spilled over.

 

“Well, I can see there’s no talking to you. God knows worrying over you is foolish – you could get yourself into scrapes for England!” Thursday turned away. “Do as you like then, and don’t say I didn’t try.”

 

“Sir-“

 

“Enough,” Thursday said wearily. “Enough, Morse. Get back to work.”

 

\----------------------

 

Their talk did seem to have had some effect; over the next couple of weeks Morse had a bit more colour to him and seemed less faded. He must be changing at home, Thursday thought. Probably trying to exercise some of that much vaunted control while in his other form.

 

It was… Thursday just couldn’t understand. The way that Morse’s brain worked was admittedly bizarre, sometimes, but Thursday didn’t need anyone uttering psychology mumbo jumbo at him to figure out that a lot of this was rooted in the past. For Morse to have brought up his father – twice, no less, and without prompting – was strong enough indication that the man was preying on the lad’s mind.  

 

For all that Thursday wished he could wash his hands of the matter and not care anymore, he still kept an eye on Morse. Still cared more than he would of for an average bagman – though to be fair, Morse had always had that effect.

 

Where Thursday had been thinking to himself not a month or two ago that he secretly did think of Morse more as the cat version of himself, now it gradually began to swing back the other way. The association of ‘Morse’ in his head became less loose-limbed ginger fluff and more firmly the alternatively intense and laconic moods of his bagman again. He got used to watching Morse throw himself into his work, hunched over his desk until Thursday gathered his things to leave and then say with a terse smile that he was planning on studying that evening. There was no real rush to it, of course – the next Sergeant’s wouldn’t be up for a while. But Thursday could hardly discourage him from studying, not when he’d spent so long telling the lad he needed it.

 

They’d stopped talking about Morse at home. Win still hadn’t moved his cardboard box from the sitting room though, and Thursday was unwittingly reminded of a case he’d worked, years ago, where the grieving parents had kept a child’s room like a shrine for over ten years.

 

If Morse never came back would she keep it there forever? Would it gradually be filled with odd and ends from the room that they needed a place to stash, until they almost forgot its original purpose and it was merely a marker of something that used to be?

 

A week later he picked it up and took it upstairs, putting up the ladder to the attic. He took careful, wobbly steps with the box balanced in one hand until he was high enough to lift it above his head and into the spare space off to one side. His poor old jumper, much abused, still lay in a forlorn heap in the bottom.

 

There was an aching tug in his chest for a moment as he looked up at the worn corner of the box peeking out of the dark hole in the ceiling. Then he climbed down the ladder, going through the motions mechanically as he closed off the entrance to the attic again, tucked the ladder away, and trudged down the stairs.

 

Win awaited him at the bottom, eyes sad.

 

“You’re angry with him,” she said softly, and reached out to take his hand.

 

“No,” he said. Then, “Yes.” He sighed, and gathered her up into his arms. “Silly of me, I know,” he said into her ear. “I just – I feel like we had something precious, and we lost it.”

 

“Oh, love,” she said.

 

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t look at it anymore.”

 

“You don’t think he’s ever coming back?”

 

Thursday took a deep breath. The hallway was quiet, nothing but the tick of the clock on the wall, the distant drip of the tap from the kitchen. Seconds passed as he counted them in his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so.”

 

She drew back, searched his eyes. “But he was-“  _Ours_.   

 

“I know,” said Thursday.

 

“He must be so lonely,” Win said, and Thursday had to close his eyes at the truth of it. He gathered her back in, and held her for a long time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now you don’t,” Morse said awkwardly. “Think I trust you, that is.”

It was two months to the day since he’d last seen Morse as a cat that Bright called him in and said there was another change-case. A request from County; they needed surveillance on an isolated farmhouse where there was no chance of getting anyone else near during the daytime.

 

Thursday nodded along, barely taking in the details.

 

When Bright was done, he cleared his throat painfully and said, “That conversation we had in the past, sir, about Morse’s handlers. I think perhaps it’s time to revisit it.”

 

Bright gave him an appraising look. “Yes?”

 

“When you brought it up last time, sir, I didn’t think Morse was ready for it. But now, if it was someone he respected… It might be worth a try.”

 

Bright leaned back in his chair. “Thursday-“

 

“A trial run, perhaps,” Thursday carried on. “We could get Oxley in to run it. Or… I know he’s just a DS, but I think Jakes might do fine. Not to be in charge of the whole investigation, of course, but to take charge of Morse.”

 

He lapsed into silence, and endured Bright’s scrutiny. Hazy afternoon sunshine highlighted motes of dust which danced in front of the window, and there was the sound of church bells ringing the hour.

 

“Well, if you think this is the best course,” Bright said.

 

Thursday nodded. “I do.”

 

“Well,” Bright said again. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and scrutinised it. “Thank you, Thursday. Send Morse in for me,” he said as Thursday rose from his chair.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

\--------------------

 

He didn’t see Morse for the rest of the day, despite his frequent glances at that corner of the office; the lad was out on call somewhere.

 

He’d grown used to seeing Morse at that desk again, used to the lad’s slouch and the way Morse would absently run the end of a pencil along the line of his jaw and up into his hair before tucking it behind an ear. He’d wondered occasionally if that was just a habit, or a substitute for the way he liked to be scratched when he was a cat. Thursday couldn’t remember whether or not Morse had used to do it, before.

 

Before. Thursday strained again to remember what things had been like, but the more immediate past and present filled in the gaps so that he couldn’t quite recall. There was Morse as a cat, affectionate and disdainful by turns, and Morse as he was now, all painfully sharp edges but somehow hollow inside. The sharpness had been there before, that was true enough, and Thursday remembered thinking how much happier Morse seemed as a cat, so the hollowness must have been there too. It just seemed… worse, now. But maybe that was because Thursday had seen how it  _could_  be, and now they were back to this again. Obviously Morse preferred it like this though, willing to sacrifice contentment for intellectual pursuits and pride. And control.

 

Home time brought a shadow standing in the open door to his office, and Morse’s closed off, wary expression. Thursday sighed inwardly and hauled himself out of his chair.

 

“That time, is it?” he asked, and went to fetch his hat and coat.

 

Morse kept quiet until they were in the car. As soon as he placed his hands on the wheel and started the engine an involuntary small, pleased smile stole over his lips; Thursday might see it every morning and evening but it still surprised him every time. Morse rolled his window down halfway, even though it was starting to get crisp in the evenings now, and pulled out, joining the stream of traffic.

 

“You want me to work with Jakes,” Morse said after a couple of minutes of driving.

 

Thursday cast him a quick glance, saw nothing but slight tension around his eyes.

 

“You already work with Jakes.”

 

“Or someone else.”

 

“It’ll be good for you to have more contacts in the station that you can-“

 

“Not with you.” Thursday looked Morse’s way again, tried to interpret the tone of voice. “You don’t want me to work with you.”

 

“Like I said,” Thursday started more slowly, “I think you should have a chance to work with someone else. You need more than one person that you can rely on, Morse.”

 

Morse kept his eyes fixed on the road, and a moment later reached over to fiddle with the radio until notes of classical music filled the car. Thursday pressed his lips together, but held his peace.

 

Ten minutes later they pulled up outside Thursday’s house. Morse put on the handbrake and keyed the engine off. There was an expectant moment of stillness, and then Thursday undid his seatbelt and put his hand on the door handle.

 

He paused when he heard the rhythmic tapping of Morse’s fingers against the steering wheel; the way that meant he was thinking. Thursday stayed for a few seconds with the door handle halfway pulled, and then slowly released it. He sat back in his chair, the soft leather creasing under him.

 

“Endeavour?”

 

The tapping continued. Thursday angled himself in Morse’s direction, took in the far-away look. His eyes swept over the rest of the lad – hair growing back unruly, jacket undone, shirt half untucked. He sighed; he really needed to start telling Morse to mind his appearance more again.

 

“You didn’t care, before,” Morse said, breaking the silence. “That I wouldn’t work with anyone else. You said it was because I didn’t… connect with anyone. But,” and here he drew in a quick breath, “that wasn’t it. Not quite. You thought you were the only one I  _trusted_.”

 

He went quiet, as though waiting for Thursday to speak, but Thursday had nothing to say.

 

“And now you don’t,” Morse added awkwardly. “Think I trust you, that is.”

 

Morse still had his eyes averted, looking down at the dashboard, but Thursday could read them well enough.

 

“Lad…“ he said with a sigh.   

 

The tapping increased in frequency – as though Morse were playing an invisible instrument. Then he turned his head to meet Thursday’s gaze, his eyes earnest and brows drawn down like the head of an arrow.

 

“Do you still want to work with me?” Morse asked.

 

“Morse, it’s not that-“ But Morse gave a short, dismissive laugh and turned away again. “Alright,” Thursday said, slower. “Yes.”

 

It would be a bit painful, working with Morse in a cold, clinical fashion, but he’d certainly still rather it was him than someone else; someone who didn’t know the lad and wouldn’t look out for him as well.

 

Morse nodded. The silence resumed, and Thursday wound his own window down. He patted down his pockets and retrieved his pipe, turning it this way and that between his fingers. It was his worn, plain one – he had a fancier new one at home but this was still his favourite. His fingers knew all of the curves and grooves, and ran across them now.

 

“I’ll work with someone else when I have to then,” said Morse.

 

Thursday’s chest felt a little tight. “Not yet?” he asked.

 

Morse shook his head, and the red of his hair caught the dying rays of the sun and glinted gold.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “Well then,” he said, and tucked the pipe back in his coat pocket. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He opened the door and turned sideways to lever himself out, straightening with a slight grunt at the pull in his back. The door shut with a quiet clap, and he was almost all the way up the path before his mind registered that there was no sound of the engine starting.

 

It wasn’t like Morse to stay and see him through the door.   

 

A half turn showed the Jag still perched on the pavement, and the outline of Morse’s face limed in reddish sunlight. He was showing no sign of moving, and while certainly the lad had a right to sit and daydream…

 

Thursday’s feet took him back, and he knocked gently against the half open window. “Morse?” he said.

 

Morse jerked slightly. He rolled the window down further. “Sir?”

 

Thursday leaned his forearm against the roof of the car, warm from the sun, and leant down. “You planning on staying here all night?” No response. “It’s not a bad street, I’ll grant you, but I can think of better places to spend your time.”

 

Morse nodded. Thursday was about to let go and walk away, but then the lad drew a quick breath as though to speak. Let it out again and gave the slightest shake of his head; huffed a wry laugh.

 

“Morse?”

 

Morse darted another glance at him, and seemed to gather his courage. “Actually, sir, I wondered if I might come in?”

 

Stunned didn’t even begin to cover it.

 

“Of course,” Thursday said, already drawing back so that Morse could open the car door. “You’re always welcome, you know that.”

 

Morse drew his long limbs out of the car, plucking his coat from the back seat, and then stood there partially shielded by the half open door for a moment. Thursday turned and started back up towards the house again, breathing out when he heard the car door close and footsteps start up behind him.

 

He was still mostly going on autopilot as he fished out his keys and found the right one. “I think Sam and Joan are both out tonight,” he said, and fitted it to the lock. “You know young people. Friday night.”

 

Morse didn’t say anything.

 

The door opened onto the cosy glow of the hallway and the smell of something amazing – chicken casserole, would be Thursday’s guess.

 

“Win,” he called. “We’re home.”

 

He brushed his shoes off on the mat and came inside, pulling off his coat and shuffling to the side so that Morse could come in alongside him.

 

“Win?”

 

“Who’s we then?” Win said as she came out of the kitchen, and stopped still as a statue when she saw Morse. Bless her though, she didn’t make a fuss over him. “Come in, come in – you must both be hungry. Put your coat up here, love.” She took it from Morse’s hands and found a free hook buried under other coats on the rack.

 

She gave Thursday a kiss on the cheek and a quick glance that he answered with a raised eyebrow, then said, “I’ll be in the kitchen, let me know if you need anything.”

 

Divested of anything to hold, Morse stuck his hands in his pockets and managed to look completely out of place. It was a talent the lad had, Thursday mused, to be deliberately awkward in any situation where he should feel at ease.

 

“Come on then, Thursday said, chivvying him forward. “It’s a pity it’s not still warmer – we could have sat outside for a bit. Drink?” he asked, and turned towards the kitchen.

 

“Water, please,” Morse said, and tried and failed a smile.

 

He was still hovering in the hallway when Thursday emerged a few minutes later, glad to get out from underfoot. Win ruled the kitchen with an iron thumb.

 

“What are you still doing out here,” Thursday said, and gestured at the door to the living room. “Go on, have a seat.”

 

It wasn’t until they were sitting at opposite ends of the couch that Thursday suddenly felt his stomach turn to lead. An accusing empty space glared at him from the floor over near the radiator, and he fought hard not to look at Morse, not to make excuses.

 

That box had stayed in place through Morse’s absence right after he’d been stuck, through his sporadic visits and occasional longer absences. And now it was gone, and Morse was here to see its absence.

 

Thursday cleared his throat. “How’re your studies?”

 

\----------------------

 

Dinner was almost ready three quarters of an hour later, and thank God; making small talk with Morse was difficult. Thursday didn’t feel like he could ignore him and read the paper or put his feet up, but he’d be the first to admit he made a terrible host.

 

“I could use a hand,” Win called from the kitchen, and Morse sprung to his feet before Thursday could.

 

“I’ll go,” he said.

 

Thursday let out a long breath once he was out of the room. An awkward Morse was not a pleasant person to try and entertain. And what did he and the lad have in common, after all, beyond coppering?

 

There were sounds of talking and general clatter from the kitchen, and a couple of minutes later Morse walked past the doorway carrying a serving dish. Thursday pushed himself to his feet, and eyed the living room again.

 

Why  _had_  he taken the box away? Because he didn’t think Morse would ever come back? Because he wanted to get used to that idea? Or out of spite – because, as Win had said, he was angry?

 

“Fred?” Win called.

 

“Coming,” he said as he got to the door. “I’m just going to wash my hands.”

 

She smiled at him, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth. “That’s alright, Morse is helping me. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

 

Dinner was… well. Win was usually more than capable of directing social conversation – or of carrying it on by herself for that matter. But she was quiet, beyond asking after Thursday’s day and how they liked the food. Morse ate all of his food slowly and with apparent relish, but was poised alertly the whole time - as though he might stand and make a run for it at any moment.

 

Thursday stared down at his casserole and didn’t feel hungry at all. Win didn’t comment on his half-eaten plate as she gathered the dishes at the end, and Morse stumbled over his words of thanks.

 

Thursday closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Sir?”

 

He took a moment. “Just been a long week, Morse.”

 

The bulb burned brightly even through his closed eyelids, and Win came back in for the next round – bumping into the back of his chair with a quick “Sorry, love!”

 

Quiet again, and he felt Morse gather himself to speak. “I should go,” the lad said after a minute. “Leave you to it.”

 

And what answer was Thursday supposed to give to that?  _Yes_ , because it was exhausting to have Morse here and not know how to act around him?  _No_ , because he’d been telling the truth when he said Morse was welcome here any time?

 

Christ, he was exhausted.

 

There had been more than a hint of uncertainty in Morse’s tone, but Thursday was honestly just too tired to deal with it.

 

“I think I might go upstairs for a bit,” Thursday said. “Got a headache. Win would like it if you stayed and kept her company, though.”

 

He didn’t wait to hear Morse’s response, just trudged out to the hall and called to Win that he’d be upstairs for a bit. He went into their bedroom, loosed the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled his tie off, and was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.

 

\-----------------

 

“You’ve been asleep an hour,” Win was saying as he blinked sleep out of his eyes. She was smiling kindly down at him in the light of the bedside lamp. He hummed in response. “And while we have a guest, too.”

 

That stopped him mid-yawn. “Morse?”

 

“He’s been keeping me company. Quiet as a mouse, poor lamb – I think he feels a bit lost. He said you had a headache?”

 

Thursday pushed himself into a sitting position, shifting his legs over the side of the bed and onto the floor. He ran a quick hand through his hair, and tried to get his brain in gear. It was near-dark, a quick glance at the still-open curtains told him, and the bedside clock showed half past eight.

 

“I was just tired, love.”

 

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” she fretted, and reached out to feel his forehead.

 

“I’m fine,” he said fondly, and stood up. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and then headed for the stairs. There was no sound coming from downstairs, and for a moment he thought Morse must have left while Win was up fetching him. But no, there the lad was perched on the sofa. He got to his feet as soon as Thursday came in, and darted a look over Thursday’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll be in my sewing room for a bit,” Win said easily, and drew the door half closed behind her.

 

Bewildered, Thursday looked back at Morse, and was surprised to see the lad looked nervous. “Morse?”

 

“I, uh, I was wondering…”

 

Thursday took a couple of steps further into the room, and waited.

 

“That is…” Morse puffed out a breath; raised one corner of his mouth in a self-deprecating smile.

 

“Well,” Thursday said. “It can’t be that bad. Out with it.”

 

Morse gave a quick glance around the room, then reached up to rub at the side of his neck. “I was wondering if I could stay tonight?” he said.

 

For a moment the words didn’t make any sense. Was there a problem with the lad’s flat?

 

“’Course,” Thursday said automatically. “You can have Sam’s room, he won’t mind.”

 

There was a moment’s pause.

 

“I meant-“ Morse said, and then stopped.

 

Thursday looked at him, really looked at him.

 

Morse’s mouth quirked again, and he reached up to tug at his ear.

 

“I meant would it be alright if I…” The words came more slowly this time, and once again he trailed off before the end of the sentence.

 

Thursday took him in, all almost-six foot of tangled awkwardness.

 

“You daft idiot.” Thursday stepped forward again, and now he was close enough to see the lad’s whole frame strung taut, as though he might vibrate out of himself. “You’re welcome here however you choose, you know that.”

 

Because before dinner could have been alright, if they’d just been sitting with the odd bit of conversation. And Morse was more than capable of being charming when he chose – he could easily fit into dinner conversation with no more than a bit of shyness.

 

If he wanted to visit as he was, they’d all welcome him. And if he wanted-

 

Morse shrugged a little awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure-“ he said, and his voice dipped a little on the last word.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said.

 

“I, um…” Morse glanced at the entrance to the room. After a moment, Thursday moved to one side so there was room to get to the door.

 

As Morse passed him, Thursday reached out and laid a brief hand on his shoulder. “This is what you want?” he asked.

 

Morse nodded, quick and sure, and carried on.

 

Well then.

 

\---------------------

 

Thursday had a few minutes to worry himself over things. To wonder if he’d misinterpreted them; to briefly wonder and then give up on trying to figure out what was going on in Morse’s head. He stared around the room. Picked up Win’s lap blanket and put it in the cardboard box’s old spot. Took it away again – because it wasn’t like Morse wasn’t capable of making himself perfectly comfortable on the carpet.

 

He told himself he was being foolish, and went and sat down on the couch. Got up, switched the radio on quietly, sat down again.

 

How hard had it been for Morse to ask? How much of this absence had been the lad fighting himself, and how much had been fear to try again? He’d done it his own way though, coming in after work - which he’d never done before. And this was, in hindsight, the only way Thursday would have accepted it – if Morse had just shown up in their garden as a cat Thursday would have just thought the whole thing was going to happen all over again. But this felt like Morse making a choice.

 

Thursday gave a long sigh, and rested his elbow on the cushioned arm of the couch. His head was still foggy from his nap, and this was not how he’d expected his evening to go.

 

When Morse entered, he did so soundlessly, and the first awareness Thursday had of him was catching his quick, smooth stride out of the corner of his eye. He experienced a moment of dissonance - of oh yes, that _is_  Morse. The lad pulled up a couple of feet in front of him, sniffed interestedly at the worn pile of the beige carpet, and then sat back on his haunches and stared contemplatively in Thursday’s direction.  

 

They might have stayed in that stand off for some time, except that Thursday heard Win’s light tread on the stair. “Fred?” she said as she came down the hall. She rounded the doorway and rested her hip against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “What was the name of the Ferguson’s new nephew again? I’m embroidering a – Oh, hello Morse,” she interrupted herself, turning a ready smile on the ginger cat. Morse had transferred his gaze to the door as soon as they’d heard her coming; he got up now and strolled over to arch against her ankles.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you,” she said, and leaned down to run her hand delicately along his back. He took a step and turned so that he could lean in against the other ankle as he came back – practically hopping in the effort to get as much of his side in contact with her leg as possible.

 

“Aren’t you beautiful?” she murmured more quietly, and stroked him again. After a moment, she rose and addressed Thursday again. “It began with a D, I think. Or was it P? Patrick? Percy?” She considered a moment, and Morse paused at her feet and started to wash himself. Then, in the tone of someone suddenly remembering something, “Charlie!”

 

“That was it,” Thursday agreed. The Fergusons lived three doors down. They were nice enough, and good for a chat whenever they bumped into each other, but there was no way Thursday had listened closely enough when Mrs Ferguson started talking about her plethora of family to be able to remember any of their names.

 

Win, knowing him far too well, gave him a look half-fond and half-chastising. “Right then,” she said, and headed back upstairs. Morse stayed in the doorway watching her progress, then swivelled his head to look at Thursday again.

 

“No use looking at me,” Thursday said. “I’ve got nothing for you either.”

 

He pushed up to his feet and went out into the hall; Morse obligingly stepping out of his way.

 

“Now where did I leave the – ah.” He picked up the newspaper from the hallstand. “Almost the World Cup,” he said with a glance at the headline, then tucked it under his arm and made his way back to the sitting room. “Though I know that’s hardly going to catch your interest.”

 

The paper unfolded into an untidy sprawl on his lap as he sat, crumpled at the bottom where it rested against his legs. When he tried to turn the page the edge caught against his jumper, and he sighed and took a moment to straighten it out.

 

Sudden pressure to his right heralded Morse’s arrival on the sofa. Thursday carried on reading, lifting his right arm a bit higher automatically when Morse nudged to get underneath it.

 

Tentative paws pressed on top of his thigh, almost but not quite kneading, then Morse shifted his weight forward onto them and glided under Thursday’s arm. Thursday could feel every ridge and knob of the lad’s spine against his forearm, then the tail, held high as if in greeting, bumped its way under.

 

Morse stood on all fours in Thursday’s lap, obscuring at least half of the paper. “I was reading that,” Thursday said mildly. Morse showed no inclination to sit down, and with a sigh Thursday took a grip on the top of the paper with his right hand – freeing up his left to slide over short, soft fur. The open left page of the paper immediately tilted itself backwards and away, and Morse turned his head to nose curiously at this item occupying Thursday’s attention.

 

“You could sit down, you know,” Thursday said. No response from Morse, beyond nudging the paper a bit further so that it bent over itself in the middle and started to collapse.

 

“Oi. Cheeky.”

 

Thursday’s fingers riffled up the back of Morse’s head, gliding up behind his ears and then down his forehead until they reached the spot just above his nose. Morse abandoned his exploration of the newspaper to push up against Thursday’s fingertips, turning his head happily to press into them.

 

“Come on,” Thursday said. “Why don’t you sit down.” His right hand was doing a poor job of keeping the newspaper in a readable position, but if Morse would just settle a bit…

 

Morse turned his head slightly to rub his cheek over the flats of Thursday’s fingers. This done, he slowly came down to a seated position, front legs tucked under himself.

 

“That’s it,” murmured Thursday, and he attempted to straighten the paper with a little shake. He couldn’t quite reach the left page, so leant the paper in towards him and caught at it with his left hand.

 

There was a small chuffing noise from his lap. Looking down, Thursday found the paper had made a dark tent over Morse, with only a triangle of fur and glimmering eyes visible. Thursday moved the paper back away from himself, and Morse’s head, which had been tilted all the way back to look up at him, followed the movement with a quick flash to the side.

 

“Right then,” said Thursday, and scanned the page to find where he’d been.

 

He hadn’t made it more than a couple of sentences before Morse shifted onto his side, his back to Thursday in a lazy half curl. Not more than a second later, a paw dashed out to tap at the paper.

 

“You want me to read you something?” Thursday asked, and looked at the bottom of the page. He read the title of the column. “Car sales at record high. Hmm.”

 

The paw batted at the page again, then hooked underneath slightly, pulling at the bottom of the page. Thursday watched in amusement and mild irritation as Morse tugged the paper towards his face, creasing the rest of it. Morse gave the newspaper caught on his paw a long, interested sniff.

 

“Oh, that’s right,” Thursday said. “You enjoy it, why don’t you. It’s not like I was trying to read it or anything.”

 

Morse’s head rotated to look at him. Since Morse’s chin was tucked down into the white fluff of his chest, this had somewhat the appearance of a smug looking owl turning to look at him. To complete the picture, Morse blinked. Owlishly.

 

Thursday attempted to ignore him, and gamely made another attempt at the paper. Morse continued to stare at him accusingly from his lap, and after a minute rolled over so that he was facing Thursday, half rocked onto his back with the shocking white of his chest and belly exposed, front legs half pulled up either side of his chin.

 

Thursday’s lips twitched.

 

One of the paws strayed out to the side, and very deliberately swiped at the corner of the paper again.

 

Thursday sighed, pretending to be much put upon, and looked down. Morse was laid out in a long curved stripe across his lap; a broad white line with ginger edges. His eyes, confident that he’d won, were slitted in pre-emptive triumph.

 

“You’re a silly sod,” Thursday said, and the affection in his voice was obvious. He fished the paper out and attempted to fold it one handed, giving up and resting it on the sofa next to him in a crumpled heap of pages. “Alright then.”

 

Satisfied that he had Thursday’s attention, Morse rolled back onto his side facing Thursday, blinking sleepily as though Thursday had just interrupted him.

 

“What am I going to do with you?” Thursday held out his left hand for Morse to sniff, and Morse leaned into it and ducked his head against it.

 

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry we put your box away, lad,” Thursday said, throat tight. “I’ll fetch it back down, later.” Morse, contentedly resting the full weight of his cheek against Thursday’s hand where it was trapped between Morse and his own leg, didn’t seem to be holding it against him.

 

Thursday moved his right hand up to start gently smoothing down Morse’s side. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted after a minute. “Thought you’d close it all off and pretend… Well. As though none of it had ever happened.”

 

Morse eyed him lazily, and made no movement. His side rose and fell with each breath under Thursday’s fingers, and once again Thursday felt a kind of awe. This was Morse. His bagman, distilled down to a bag of fluff and bones, Thursday capturing the whole of his breathing in the palm of his hand. Not un-akin to when Sam and Joan were born – the marvel of it.

 

“I don’t know if that would be best for you, though I could understand why you might want it.” Might want to just be one thing rather than feeling torn between two sides of yourself. It wasn’t what was best for us though, and so I was… petty.” Not at the office, of course not, and he hadn’t held it against the lad, but here, in his house, he’d been angry at Morse for what he’d seen as an unnecessary and foolish decision. Angry and sad.

 

“Is this just you back for the night?” he murmured. “Or are you saying you’ll start coming around again?”

 

It was quiet for a moment, then Morse half stretched out a paw. It could have gone further, but Morse was clearly in no mood to make more effort than he had to. It made a small motion in mid-air. Twice. Thursday knew Morse well enough to know it had been deliberate.

 

“Which?” he asked. “The second?” Morse closed his eyes even further, twitched his whiskers. “Well,” said Thursday. “That’s… that’s good.”

 

There was the sound of keys being fitted at the front door.

 

“I’m home,” came Joan’s voice, and the clinking and rustling of her divesting her coat.

 

“We’re in here,” Thursday called. Morse seemed entirely undisturbed by the noise, and had settled down to the point he barely flicked an ear when Joan appeared in the doorway.

 

“Well, and how was your-“ Her words came to an abrupt halt, her gaze fixing on the cat in Thursday’s lap. “Morse!”

 

Her eyes darted up to Thursday’s, her lips parting with questions, and he just shook his head slightly. They would have to keep; he didn’t want anything to interrupt the tentative beginning he thought Morse was making here.

 

She came a little further into the room, seemingly unable to look away from Morse. Morse’s eyes were completely closed, but after a moment he shifted a little and sighed, and she sat down on the sofa beside Thursday like her strings had been cut.

 

“We’ve missed you, you know,” she said to Morse, and her voice was steady but Thursday saw a hint of tears brightening her eyes.

 

Thursday’s hand drifted gently over Morse’s flank, and Morse stretched a little and settled again. “We’ll have to see, love,” he said quietly.

 

She nodded quickly, but the smile tugging at her mouth said that it was pointless cautioning her. No more so than it was himself – Thursday knew he’d already decided the lad was here to stay this time.

 

“Your mum’s upstairs,” Thursday said after a minute of the both of them watching Morse’s breathing. “And Sam’s sleeping over at Fred’s.”

 

“I’ll go and say hi to mum then. Fancy a cocoa?”

 

“Yes,” Thursday said, and looked down at Morse’s content form. “I think we could all sit in here for a bit and have one."

 

Her smile, as she looked back at them from the doorway, was almost blinding.

 

\-------------

 

The End (no, really)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fic ended up being weirdly about consent and personal space and a person’s perception of themselves. And I’m not sure I’m happy how it came out, but this is just how it worked for me with these characters.


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